did not leave the
parish of Methven speedily, it would be a bloody day for them. And that
if they did not come to the kirk decently and hear the curate, she would
ware her life upon teaching them how to worship God properly, for that
they were an ignorant, wicked pack! A pirlicue[9] which pleased them but
little, so that some rode off that they might not be known, and some
dourly remained, but were impotent for evil.

[Footnote 9: In this case, the application of the discourse.]

"I never knew that Anne Keith was such a spirity lass. I would all such
lasses were as sound in the faith as she."

This was the word of Roger McGhie, uttered like a meditation. I felt
sure he thought of his daughter Kate.

"Then," continued John Graham, "after that, Anne took her warlike folk
to the kirk. And lo! the poor curate was so wandered and feared, that he
could make no suitable discourse that day, but only stood and bleated
like a calf, till the Lady Anne said to him, 'Sir, if you can neither
fight nor preach, ye had better go back to the Hielands and herd kye,
for by the Lord, I, Anne Keith, can fight and preach too!'"

"As they do say the Laird of Methven right well knoweth," said Roger
McGhie, in the very dry and covert way in which he said many things.

"Ah!" said Clavers, and smiled a little as if he also had his own
thoughts. But he went on.

"So on the very next day Anne held a court in the hall, and all the old
canting wives of the parish were there. She set the Test to all their
throats, and caused them to forswear conventicling at the peril of their
lives--all but one old beldame that would in no wise give way, or be
answerable for her children, who were well kenned and notour rebels.

"Then Anne took from the hag her apron, that was a fine braw one with
pockets, and said to her, 'This I shall retain till you have paid your
son's fines. If ye cannot keep your other brats out of the dirt, at
least I shall keep this one clean for you.'"

"Ha, very well said, Anne!" cried Roger McGhie, clapping the table. For
"brat" is but the Scots word for apron, and such a brisk conceity saying
was like that very spirited lady, Anne Keith.

"But with yourself, how goes it?" asked the Laird of Balmaghie.

Claverhouse turned a silver spoon over and over, and looked at the
polish upon it thoughtfully.

"Ill, ill, I fear. I ride night and day through all the country of
Galloway, and it is like so much pudding in mud. That which you