s, shoemakers, and artificers,
did their work by going from house to house according as the several
families had need of them. Now there was one man, who sat near us at the
conventicle, whose actions that day it was impossible to mistake. When
the troopers were jingling past beneath us, he flung himself on the
ground, and thrust his plaid into his mouth, to prevent his crying out
for fear. So pitiful did he look that, when all was past, my cousin Wat
went over and asked of him:

"What craven manner of hill-man art thou?"

For indeed the men of the broad bonnet were neither cowards nor
nidderlings. But this fellow was shaking with fear like the aspen in an
unequal wind.

"I am but poor Birsay the cobbler," the man answered, "an it please your
honour, I like not to come so near thae ill loons of soldiers."

"What sent you to the conventicle, then, when you fear the red-coats so
greatly?" asked my cousin.

The little man glanced up at my cousin with a humoursome gleam in his
eyes. He was all bent together with crouching over his lap-stone, and as
he walked he threw himself into all kinds of ridiculous postures.

"Weel," he said, "ye see it's no easy kennin' what may happen. I hae
seen a conventicle scale in a hurry, and leave as mony as ten guid
plaids on the grund--forbye Bibles and neckerchiefs."

"But surely," I said to the cobbler, "you would not steal what the poor
honest folk leave behind them in their haste?"

The word seemed to startle him greatly.

"Na, na; Birsay steals nane, stealin's no canny!" he cried. "Them that
steals hings in a tow--an' forbye, burns in muckle hell--bleezin' up in
fuffin lowes juist as the beardie auld man Sandy Peden said."

And the cobbler illustrated the nature of the conflagration with his
hand.

"Na, na," he cried, in the strange yammering speech of the creature,
"there's nae stealin' in gatherin' thegether what ither folks hae
strawed, surely. That's i' the guid Buik itsel'. An' then after the bizz
is bye, and the sough calmed doon, Birsay can gang frae auld wife to
auld wife, and say to ilka yin, 'Ye wadna loss ocht lately, did ye, guid
wife?' 'Aye,' says she. 'I lost my Bible, my plaid, or my kercher at the
field preachin'!' 'Ay, woman, did ye?' says I. 'They're terrible loons
the sodgers for grippin' and haudin'. Noo I mak' shoon for a sergeant
that has mony a dizzen o' thae things.'

"Wi' that the auld wife begins to cock her lugs. 'Maybes he has my
Bible!' 'I wadn