“Never mind him, Rob,” said the atheist, Cruickshanks, “it’s better playing cards in hell than singing psalms in heaven.”
“Joseph Cruickshanks,” responded Gavin grimly, “you will find no cards down there.”
Then Rob also came to the foot of the stair. There was some angry muttering from the crowd, and young Charles Yuill exclaimed, “Curse you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as weel as on Sabbaths?”
“Lay down your weapons,” Gavin said to the six men.
They looked at each other. Hobart slipped his pike behind his back.
“I hae no weapon,” he said slily.
“Let me hae my fling this nicht,” Dow entreated, “and I’ll promise to bide sober for a twelvemonth.”
“Oh, Rob, Rob!” the minister said bitterly, “are you the man I prayed with a few hours ago?”
The scythe fell from Rob’s hands.
“Down wi’ your pikes,” he roared to his companions, “or I’ll brain you wi’ them.”