an. Let us catch him up."

And in gigantic strides the long, lean Highlander whirled away into the
grey twilight, Turnbull following with a good-humoured oath.

The track of the rustic was easy to follow, even in the faltering
dark; for he was enlivening his wavering walk with song. It was an
interminable poem, beginning with some unspecified King William, who (it
appeared) lived in London town and who after the second rise vanished
rather abruptly from the train of thought. The rest was almost entirely
about beer and was thick with local topography of a quite unrecognizable
kind. The singer's step was neither very rapid, nor, indeed,
exceptionally secure; so the song grew louder and louder and the two
soon overtook him.

He was a man elderly or rather of any age, with lean grey hair and a
lean red face, but with that remarkable rustic physiognomy in which it
seems that all the features stand out independently from the face; the
rugged red nose going out like a limb; the bleared blue eyes standing
out like signals.

He gave them greeting with the elaborate urbanity of the slightly
intoxicated. MacIan, who was vibrating with one of his silent,
violent decisions, opened the question without delay. He explained the
philosophic position in words as short and simple as possible. But
the singular old man with the lank red face seemed to think uncommonly
little of the short words. He fixed with a fierce affection upon one or
two of the long ones.

"Atheists!" he repeated with luxurious scorn. "Atheists! I know their
sort, master. Atheists! Don't talk to me about 'un. Atheists!"

The grounds of his disdain seemed a little dark and confused; but they
were evidently sufficient. MacIan resumed in some encouragement:

"You think as I do, I hope; you think that a man should be connected
with the Church; with the common Christian----"

The old man extended a quivering stick in the direction of a distant
hill.

"There's the church," he said thickly. "Grassley old church that is.
Pulled down it was, in the old squire's time, and----"

"I mean," explained MacIan elaborately, "that you think that there
should be someone typifying religion, a priest----"

"Priests!" said the old man with sudden passion. "Priests! I know
'un. What they want in England? That's what I say. What they want in
England?"

"They want you," said MacIan.

"Quite so," said Turnbull, "and me; but they won't get us. MacIan, your
attempt on the primiti