“Not bad,” returned Lawless. “You see, you want more decision with the throw—as with the congregation. If you will persist in refusing to report delinquents and have them heavily fined or intercommuned, you must expect an empty church. Mine is fairly full just now, and I have weeded out most of the incorrigibles.”
“I will never increase my congregation by such means, and I have no wish to weed out the incorrigibles,” rejoined Selby, becoming grave as he made another and a better throw.
At that moment our fugitive shepherds, dashing round the corner of the manse, almost plunged into the arms of the Reverend Frank Selby. They pulled up, panting and uncertain how to act.
“You seem in haste, friends,” said the curate, with an urbane smile.
“Oot o’ the fryin’-pan into the fire!” growled Quentin, grasping his staff and setting his teeth.
“If you will condescend to explain the frying-pan I may perhaps relieve you from the fire,” said Selby with emphasis.
Wallace observed the tone and grasped at the forlorn hope.
“The dragoons are after us, sir,” he said eagerly; “unless you can hide us we are lost!”
“If you are honest men,” interrupted the Reverend George Lawless, with extreme severity of tone and look, “you have no occasion to hide—”
“Bub we’re not honest men,” interrupted Quentin in a spirit of almost hilarious desperation, “we’re fannyteeks,—rebels,—Covenanters,—born eediots—”