"Ye did that, and nae mistak'!" replied the keeper.
"Losh, it was a bad job if I did!" said Jock. "I'm sure I didna want to hairm them, puir bodies, though they hairmed me. In fac'," he added, after a short pause, during which he kicked the heather vehemently, "I'm willin' tae let byganes be byganes wi' them, and sae maybe their Maker will no' be ower sair on them. Ye dinna think, Mr. Spence, that it's possible my faither and mither are baith in the bad place?"
"Whaur else wad they be, if no' there?" asked the keeper.
"It's mair than I can say!" replied Jock, as if in a dream. "I only thocht they were dead in the kirkyard. But--but--ken ye ony road o' gettin' them oot if they're yonner--burnin' ye ken?"
"Ye had better," said Hugh, "gie ower botherin' yersel' to take them oot; rather try, man, to keep yersel' oot."
"But I canna help botherin' mysel' aboot my ain folk," replied Jock; "an' maybe they warna sae bad as I mak' them. I've seen them baith greetin' and cryin' tae God for mercy even whan they war fou; an' they aince telt me, after an awfu' thrashin they gied me, that I wasna for my life to drink or swear like them. Surely that was guid, Mr. Spence? God forgie them! God forgie them!" murmured Jock, covering his face with his hands; "lost sheep!--lost money!--lost ne'er-do-weels! an' I'm here and them there! Hoo comes that aboot?" he asked, in a dreamy mood.
"God's mercy!" answered Hugh; "and we should be merciful tae ither folk, as God is mercifu' to oorsel's."
"That's what I wish thae puir sowls to get oot o' that awfu' jail for! But I'll never curse faither or mither mair," said Jock. "I'll sweer," he added, rising up, muttering the rhyme as solemnly as if before a magistrate:
"If I lee, let death
Cut my breath!"