ould
not be able to recall it; and that moment all the future of his sermon
was a blank. He stammered, stared, did nothing, thought nothing--only
felt himself in hell. Roused by the sight of the faces of his hearers
growing suddenly expectant at the very moment when he had nothing more
to give them, he gathered his seven fragmentary wits, and as a last
resort, to which he had had a vague regard in putting his manuscript in
his pocket, resolved to read the remainder. But in order to give the
change of mode an appearance of the natural and suitable, he managed
with a struggle to bring out the words:

"But, my brethren, let us betake ourselves to the written testimony."

Every one concluded he was going to quote from Scripture; but instead
of turning over the leaves of the Bible, he plunged his hand into the
abysses of his coat. Horror of horrors for the poor autocrat!--the
pocket was as empty as his own memory; in fact it was a mere typical
pocket, typical of the brains of its owner. The cold dew of agony broke
over him; he turned deadly pale; his knees smote one another; but he
made yet, for he was a man of strong will, a final frantic effort to
bring his discourse down the inclined plane of a conclusion.

"In fine," he stammered "my beloved brethren, if you do not repent and
be converted and return to the Lord, you will--you will--you will have
a very bad harvest."

Having uttered this solemn prediction, of the import of which he, like
some other prophets, knew nothing before he uttered it, Murdoch Malison
sat down, _a stickit minister_. His brain was a vacuum; and the thought
of standing up again to pray was intolerable. No more could he sit
there; for if he sat, the people would sit too. Something must be done,
and there was nobody to do anything. He must get out and then the
people would go home. But how could he escape? He durst not go down
that pulpit stair in the sight of the congregation.--He cared no more
for his vanished reputation. His only thought was how to get out.

Meantime the congregation was variously affected. Some held down their
heads and laughed immoderately. These were mostly of Mr Malison's
scholars, the fine edge of whose nature, if it ever had any, had
vanished under the rasp of his tortures. Even Alec, who, with others of
the assembly, held down his head from sympathetic shame, could not help
remembering how the master had made Annie Anderson stand upon the form,
and believing for the time