"Wha stole from ye," he said, "what ye had already stolen from its rightful owners.

An' think ye," he continued, "that your honest daughter Kate would deign to array hersel' in stolen goods, no matter how rich they might happen to be! An' think ye she could hold up her head if the good people o' Bridgetown could point at her an' say, 'Look at the thief's daughter; how fine she is!' An' think ye that Mr.Martin Newcombe would tak' into his house an' hame a wife wha hadna come honestly by her clothes! I tell ye, Master Bonnet, that ye should exalt your soul in thankfulness that ye are no longer a dishonest mon, an' that whatever raiment your daughter may now wear, no' a sleeve or button o' it was purloined an' stolen by her father." "Ben Greenway," exclaimed Bonnet, striking his hand upon the table, "you will drive me so mad that I cannot read writing! These things are bad enough, and you need not make them worse." "Bless Heaven," said the Scotchman, "your conscience is wakin', an' the time may come, if it is kept workin', when ye will forget your plunder an' your blude, your wicked vanity, your cruelty an' your dishonesty, an' mak' yoursel' worthy o' a good daughter an' a quiet hame.

An' more than that, I will tak' leave to add, o' the faithful services o' a steadfast friend." "I cannot forget them, Ben," said Bonnet, speaking without anger.

"The more you talk about my sins the more I long to do them all over again; the more you say about my vanity and pride, the more I yearn to wear my uniform and wave my naked sword.

Ay, to bring it down with blood upon its blade.