"That's all right, Robert, that's all right," David returned in his most amiable tone; "don't get excited, Robert—we both traded with our eyes open. An' all these things makes life, anyhow—they all go to the weavin' of the web, as I say sometimes, an' besides——"
But Robert's blood was up.
"Onyhow, I didna swear," he exclaimed in a rising tone; "I didna say damn, Mr. Moderator—an' the horse-doctor tellt me as how the candidate afore us said damn mair nor aince when he found oot aboot the spavin. He'd mak a bonnie member o' the kirk!" and the elder's face glowed with righteous indignation.
The Moderator cast about to avert the storm. "Maybe he was taken unawares," he interposed charitably; "any one might be overtaken in a fault. Did you, Mr. Borland—did you say what Mr. McCaig says you did?" as he turned a very kindly face on the accused.
David was more intently employed than ever with his hat. "I won't say but what I mebbe did," he acknowledged, an unfamiliar confusion in his words. "You see, sir, I should a knowed a spavin when I seen it; the signs is awful easy told—an' that's what made me mad. So I said I was a fool—an' I said Robert here was an elder. An' I likely said both of us was—was that kind of a fool an' an elder, the kind he says I said—it's an awful handy describin' word," he added, nodding respectfully towards the Moderator's chair.
"So I have heard, Mr. Borland," the Moderator replied, smiling reproachfully nevertheless, "though I think there are others just as good. However, if that is the worst sin you've been guilty of, I wouldn't say you're beyond the pale."
"Oh, there's lots of things I've done, far worse than that," David exclaimed vigorously. "I don't allow that's a sin at all—that's just a kind of a spark out o' the chimney. I reckon nearly everybody, even ministers, says that—only they don't spell it just the same. I'd call that just a kind of splutter—an' everybody splutters sometimes. Robert there, he says 'bless my soul' when he gets beat on a trade—but he means just the same as me. Oh, yes," he went cheerfully on, "there's lots o' worse things than that against me. There's lots o' little weak spots about me; an' I'll tell them if you like—if the deacons'll do the same," he proposed, looking earnestly around for volunteers.
There was no clamour of response, and it fell to Geordie Nickle again to break the silence.
"These is no' the main things, David," he began solemnly. "Tell us, div ye trust the Saviour wi' yir soul?"
David halted, the gravity of the question shading his face. "I think—I think I do," he ventured after a long pause. "I wouldn't trust it to no one else. My mother taught me that."