"A blessed land, good youth," said Mr. Bummel. "I sojourned there long when there was a flaming sword over the children of righteousness."
"Reverend sir, canst tell me what are the news among you here?" asked Walter, who was in an agony of mind to lead the conversation to what lay nearest his heart.
"Verily, Sir, nought but the famine—the famine. The west winds hath detained the Flanders mail these two months, and we have heard nothing from London these many weeks, save anent plots of the Jacobites and Papists, of whilk we have ever enough and to spare."
"What have you heard of them of late?"
"'Tis said that one Walter Fenton, formerly an officer in the regiment of Dunbarton (that bloody oppressor of Israel) is now tarrying among us, plotting in James's cause, or on some such errand of hell."
"The rascal," said Walter, drinking to conceal the confusion that overspread his face.
"Yea," continued Ichabod, puffing vigorously, and luckily involving himself in a cloud of smoke. "This morning the heralds, in their vain-glorious trumpery, were proclaiming at the Cross the reward of a thousand merks to any that will bring his head to the Privy Council; and the Lord Clermistonlee, from the good will and affection he bears his Majesty, offers five hundred more?"
"Do you think he will be found?"
"Indubitably. The ports are closed, the guards on the alert; the messengers-at-arms, macers, and halberdiers are all in full chase. He must perish, and so may all who would restore the abominations of idolatry! Here in my Bombshell (a work whilk I have lately imprinted with mickle care and toil), if I do not prove, from the epistles to the Thessalonians, that the great master of popery, the Bishop of Rome, is the grand Antichrist therein referred to, I will be well content to kiss the bloody maiden that stands under the shadow of the Tolbooth gable."
"Hear till him!" cried the delighted Elsie. "Hear till him! O wow, but my Meinie's man is a grand minister—he rides on the rigging of the kirk!"