The Minister stepped aside—not, as I think, at all for fear of the pistol, but despairing of reaching the conscience of such a seared and battered heathen.
Then suddenly the old man rose from his seat as one that sees a heavenly vision. His face appeared transfigured and shining, and, with his white hair falling on his shoulders, I declare he looked like the Apostle Andrew in the Papish window of the High Kirk of Edinburgh.
'I see him! I see him!' he cried. 'He comes with the tidings of battle.'
I looked where he pointed with his eyes, but could see nothing save a black dot, which seemed to rise and fall steadily. Nevertheless, the old man spoke the truth. It was, indeed, a swift rider making straight for the house of Kerse.
As the man came nearer we saw him spur his horse till it stumbled and fell at the park dykes, weary or wounded, we could not tell which. This roused David Crauford, and he shouted to the man who now came on lamely on foot.
'Man, is the sow flitted?' he cried.
The man, peching and blown with his haste, could not answer till he came near.
'Is the sow flitted?' again shouted the old man.
'Oh, Laird Kerse,' cried the messenger, the tears trickling down his face, 'pity this sorrowfu' day! There has been a waesome slaughter o' your folk—ten o' them are dead—'
'Is the sow flitted?' cried Crauford, louder than ever. 'Can you no answer, yea or nay?'