A man was approaching the bridge.

He came from the awful city! Perhaps he wanted him! He fled along the bridge like a low-flying water-bird.
If another man had appeared at the other end, he would have got through between the rods, and thrown himself into the river.

But there was no one to oppose his escape; and after following the road a little way up the river, he turned aside into a thicket of shrubs on the nearly precipitous bank, and sat down to recover the breath he had lost more from dismay than exertion.
The light grew.

All at once he descried, far down the river, the steeples of the city.

Alas! alas! there lay poor black Sambo, so dear to wee Sir Gibbie, motionless and covered with blood! He had two red mouths now, but was not able to speak a word with either! They would carry him to a churchyard and lay him in a hole to lie there for ever and ever.