Moore. Here, none o’ that. (They hold him back. Struggle.)
Smith. Hold on, Deacon!
Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. (Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (Singing without.) Ha! what’s that?
Ainslie. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And, O Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man——
The Psalm without:—
| “Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, Should’st mark iniquity? But yet with Thee forgiveness is, That fear’d Thou mayest be.” |
Brodie. I think I’ll go. “My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.” If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll——. Ay, who shall stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now ... hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. “My son, the Deacon...!” Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool! (Becoming conscious of the others.) Rogues!
Smith. Take my arm, Deacon.
Brodie. Down, dog, down! (Stay and be drunk with your equals.) Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (As he goes out, Hunt, who has been staggering about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as about to sleep.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT