Bruce went and fetched it, with a bad grace enough, and handed over with it the last tattered remnants of his respectability into the hands of James Dow.
Mr Cupples, having made a translation of the inscription, took it to
Thomas Crann.
"Do ye min' what Bruce read that nicht ye saw him tak' something oot o' the beuk?" he asked as he entered.
"Ay, weel that. He began wi' the twenty-third psalm, and gaed on to the neist."
"Weel, read that. I faun' 't on a blank leaf o' the buik."
Thomas read�-'Over the twenty-third psalm of David I have laid a five-pound note for my dear Annie Anderson, after my death,'�-and lifting his eyes, stared at Mr Cupples, his face slowly brightening with satisfaction. Then a cloud came over his brow�-for was he not rejoicing in iniquity? At least he was rejoicing in coming shame.
"Hoo cud it hae been," he asked after a brief pause, "that Bruce didna fa' upo' this, as weel's you, Mr Cupples, or didna scart it oot?"
"'Cause 'twas written in Latin. The body hadna the wit to misdoobt the contents o' 't. It said naething till him, and he never thoucht it cud say onything aboot him."
"It's a fine thing to be a scholar, Mr Cupples."
"Ay, whiles."