"I luikit for 't, but I cudna fin' 't, and thocht she had ta'en 't oot upo' the road hame."
"Cudna ye fin' the twenty-third psalm?�-But jist ae thing mair, Mr Turnbull, and syne I'll haud my tongue," resumed Thomas.�-"Jeames Johnstone, will ye rin ower to my hoose, and fess the Bible? It's lyin' upo' the drawers. Ye canna mistak' it.�-Jist hae patience till he comes back, sir, and we'll see hoo Mr Bruce'll read the inscription. I wad hae made nothing o' 't, gin it hadna been for a frien' o' mine. But Mr Bruce is a scholar, an' 'll read the Laitin till 's."
By this time James Johnstone was across the street.
"There's some foul play in this," cried Bruce, out of the darkness. "My enemy maun sen' for an ootlandish speech and a heathen tongue to insnare ane o' the brethren!"
Profound silence followed. All sat expectant. The snuff of the candles grew longer and longer. Even the energetic Richard, who had opposed the Scripture single-handed, forgot his duty in the absorbing interest of the moment. Every ear was listening for the footsteps of the returning weaver, bringing the Bible of the parish-clergyman into the half-unhallowed precincts of a conventicle. At a slight motion of one of the doors, an audible start of expectation broke like an electric spark from the still people. But nothing came of it. They had to wait full five minutes yet before the messenger returned, bearing the large volume in both hands in front of him.
"Tak' the buik up to Mr Turnbull, Jeames, and snuff his can'les," said
Thomas.
James took the snuffers, but Richard started up, snatched them from him, and performed the operation himself with his usual success.
The book being laid on the desk before Mr Turnbull, Thomas called out into the back region of the chapel,
"Noo, Robert Bruce, come foret, and fin' oot this inscription that ye ken a' aboot sae weel, and read it to the church, that they may see what a scholar they hae amo' them."
But there was neither voice nor hearing.