'Are you so great a self-deceiver?'said M'Brair.'Wretched man,trampler upon God's covenants,crucifier of your Lord afresh.I will ding you to the earth with one word:How about the young woman,Janet M'Clour?'
'Weel,what about her?what do I ken?'cries Haddo.
'M'Brair,ye daft auld wife,I tell ye as true's truth,Inever meddled her.It was just daffing,I tell ye:daffing,and nae mair:a piece of fun,like!I'm no denying but what I'm fond of fun,sma'blame to me!But for onything sarious -hout,man,it might come to a deposeetion!I'll sweir it to ye.Where's a Bible,till you hear me sweir?'
'There is nae Bible in your study,'said M'Brair severely.
And Haddo,after a few distracted turns,was constrained to accept the fact.
'Weel,and suppose there isna?'he cried,stamping.'What mair can ye say of us,but just that I'm fond of my joke,and so's she?I declare to God,by what I ken,she might be the Virgin Mary -if she would just keep clear of the dragoons.
But me!na,deil haet o'me!'
'She is penitent at least,'says M'Brair.
'Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused me?'cried the curate.
'I canna just say that,'replied M'Brair.'But I rebuked her in the name of God,and she repented before me on her bended knees.'
'Weel,I daursay she's been ower far wi'the dragoons,'said Haddo.'I never denied that.I ken naething by it.'
'Man,you but show your nakedness the more plainly,'said M'Brair.'Poor,blind,besotted creature -and I see you stoytering on the brink of dissolution:your light out,and your hours numbered.Awake,man!'he shouted with a formidable voice,'awake,or it be ower late.'
'Be damned if I stand this!'exclaimed Haddo,casting his tobacco-pipe violently on the table,where it was smashed in pieces.'Out of my house with ye,or I'll call for the dragoons.'
'The speerit of the Lord is upon me,'said M'Brair with solemn ecstasy.'I sist you to compear before the Great White Throne,and I warn you the summons shall be bloody and sudden.'
And at this,with more agility than could have been expected,he got clear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face of the pursuing curate.The next Lord's day the curate was ill,and the kirk closed,but for all his ill words,Mr.M'Brair abode unmolested in the house of Montroymont.
III -THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE
THIS was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west a moorish valley,full of ink-black pools.These presently drained into a burn that made off,with little noise and no celerity of pace,about the corner of the hill.
On the far side the ground swelled into a bare heath,black with junipers,and spotted with the presence of the standing stones for which the place was famous.They were many in that part,shapeless,white with lichen -you would have said with age:and had made their abode there for untold centuries,since first the heathens shouted for their installation.The ancients had hallowed them to some ill religion,and their neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent before the fall of day;but of late,on the upspringing of new requirements,these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of assembly.A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all the northern and eastern approaches;and such was the disposition of the ground,that by certain cunningly posted sentries the west also could be made secure against surprise:there was no place in the country where a conventicle could meet with more quiet of mind or a more certain retreat open,in the case of interference from the dragoons.The minister spoke from a knowe close to the edge of the ring,and poured out the words God gave him on the very threshold of the devils of yore.
When they pitched a tent (which was often in wet weather,upon a communion occasion)it was rigged over the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand,none knew why.And the congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below,and partly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring itself.In truth the situation was well qualified to give a zest to Christian doctrines,had there been any wanted.But these congregations assembled under conditions at once so formidable and romantic as made a zealot of the most cold.They were the last of the faithful;God,who had averted His face from all other countries of the world,still leaned from heaven to observe,with swelling sympathy,the doings of His moorland remnant;Christ was by them with His eternal wounds,with dropping tears;the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor firmly adopted by Protestant imaginations)was dimly supposed to be in the heart of each and on the lips of the minister.And over against them was the army of the hierarchies,from the men Charles and James Stuart,on to King Lewie and the Emperor;and the scarlet Pope,and the muckle black devil himself,peering out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate and hope.'One pull more!'he seemed to cry;'one pull more,and it's done.There's only Clydesdale and the Stewartry,and the three Bailiaries of Ayr,left for God.'And with such an august assistance of powers and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and evil,it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old,infirm,debile,AB AGENDOdevils whose holy place they were now violating.
There might have been three hundred to four hundred present.
