Mr. Rowland dropped his sketchbook, took off his hat, and stood as if in worship. The other men followed his example.
“Father,” said Paula, “let's go to church.”
“Hush,” said her father, putting up his hand, and so stood for some moments.
“Oh, Scotland, Scotland!” he cried, lifting his arms high above his head, “no wonder your children in exile weep for their native land.”
“And your men fight and die for you,” added Paula, glancing at Captain Neil.
“Thank you,” said Captain Neil, turning quickly away.
“Yes,” said Paula, “we shall go to church here, father.”
The church stood against a cluster of ancient firs, in the midst of its quiet graves, yew shaded here and there. Beside it stood the manse, within its sweet old garden, protected by a moss covered stone wall.
At its gate the minister stood, a dark man with silvering hair, of some sixty years, but still erect and with a noble, intellectual face.
“Let us speak to him,” said Paula, as they left their car.