CHAPTER III.
THE CANONGATE TOLBOOTH.
"Never daunton youth" was, I remember, a saying of my grandmother's;
but it was the most dauntoned youth in Scotland that now jogged over
the moor to the Edinburgh highroad. I had a swimming head, and a hard
crupper to grate my ribs at every movement, and my captor would shift
me about with as little gentleness as if I had been a bag of oats for
his horse's feed. But it was the ignominy of the business that kept me
on the brink of tears. First, I was believed to be one of the maniac
company of the Sweet-Singers, whom my soul abhorred; _item_, I had been
worsted by a trooper with shameful ease, so that my manhood cried out
against me. Lastly, I had cut the sorriest figure in the eyes of that
proud girl. For a moment I had been bold, and fancied myself her
saviour, but all I had got by it was her mocking laughter.
They took us down from the hill to the highroad a little north of
Linton village, where I was dumped on the ground, my legs untied, and
my hands strapped to a stirrup leather. The women were given a country
cart to ride in, and the men, including Muckle John, had to run each by
a trooper's leg. The girl on the sorrel had gone, and so had the maid
Janet, for I could not see her among the dishevelled wretches in the
cart.
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