“Yes.”
“What are they generally employed in when you hear them? Do they read, and pray, and sing psalms?”
“Yes.”
“Do your father and mother always join them?”
“Yes.”
Here William could restrain himself no longer. “Gude faith, Jock, man,” said he, “ye’re just telling a hirsel o’ eindown lees. It canna be lees that the man wants, for that maks him nae the wiser; an’ for you to say that my father rises to pray i’ the night–time, beats a’, when ye ken my mither has baith to fleitch an’ fight or she can get him eggit on till’t i’ the Sabbath e’enings. He’s ower glad to get it foughten decently by, to rise an’ fa’ till’t again. O fye, Jock! I wad stand by the truth; an’, at ony rate, no just gaung to hell open mouth.”
When the volley of musketry went off, all the prisoners started and stared on one another; even the hundred veterans that guarded them appeared by their looks to be wholly at a loss. Macpherson alone ventured any remark on it. “Pe Cot’s life, fat she pe pluff pluffing at now? May the teal more pe her soul’s salvation, if she do not believe te man’s pe gone out of all reason.”
The women screamed; and Maron, whose tongue was a mere pendulum to the workings of the heart within, went on sighing and praying; asking questions, and answering them alternately; and at every pause, looked earnestly to her husband, who leaned against the corner of the room, ashamed that his bound hands should be seen.
“Och! Aigh me!” cried Maron,—“Dear sirs, what’s the fock shootin at?—Eh?—I’m sure they hae nae battlers to fight wi’ there?—No ane—I wat, no ane. Aigh now, sirs! the lives o’ God’s creatures!—They never shoot nae callants, do they? Oh, na, na, they’ll never shoot innocent bairns, puir things! They’ll maybe hae been trying how weel they could vizy at the wild ducks; there’s a hantle o’ cleckins about the saughs o’ the lake. Hout ay, that’s a’.—He hasna forgotten to be gracious, nor is his mercy clean gane.”
Thus poor Maron went on, and though she had but little discernment left, she perceived that there was a tint of indignant madness in her husband’s looks. His lips quivered—his eyes dilated—and the wrinkles on his brow rolled up to the roots of his dark grizzled hair, “Watie,” cried she, in a shrill and tremulous voice—“Watie, what ails ye—Oh! tell me what ails ye, Watie?—What’s the fock shooting at? Eh? Ye’ll no tell me what they’re shooting at, Watie?—Oh, oh, oh, oh!”