in the broad manner of my own
folk.... I saw in my mind's eye a wet moorland, and heard a voice
inveighing against the wickedness of those in high places.... I smelled
the foul air of the Canongate Tolbooth, and heard this same man
testifying against the vanity of the world.... "_Cawterpillars!_" It
was the voice that had once bidden me sing "Jenny Nettles."

Harsh and strident and horrible, it was yet the voice I had known, now
blaspheming Scripture words behind that gruesome sacrifice. I think I
laughed aloud. I remembered the man I had pursued my first night in
Virginia, the man who had raided Frew's cabin. I remembered Ringan's
tale of the Scots redemptioner that had escaped from Norfolk county,
and the various strange writings which had descended from the hills.
Was it not the queerest fate that one whom I had met in my boyish
scrapes should return after six years and many thousand miles to play
once more a major part in my life! The nameless general in the hills
was Muckle John Gib, once a mariner of Borrowstoneness, and some time
leader of the Sweet-Singers. I felt the smell of wet heather, and the
fishy odours of the Forth; I heard the tang of our country speech, and
the swirl of the gusty winds of home.

But in a second all thought of mirth was gone, and a deep solemnity
fell upon me. God had assuredly directed my path, for He had brought
the two of us together over the widest spaces of earth. I had no fear
of the issue. I should master Muckle John as I had mastered him before.
My awe was all for God's mysterious dealing, not for that poor fool
posturing behind his obscene sacrifice. His voice rose and fell in
eldritch screams and hollow moans. He was mouthing the words of some
Bible Prophet.

"_A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the
mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as
women. A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a
drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the
land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols_."

Every syllable brought back some memory. He had the whine and sough in
his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and
imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer
morn. And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the
Sweet-Singer.

"_Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will bring a King of kings from
the north, with horses and wi