'Oh, Kerse, hear me and weep; your braw and bonny son Jock, the flower of Kyle, is stricken through the heart, and lies cauld and dead on the ground.'
'Scoundrel, dolt, yammering calf, answer or die. Is the sow flitted?' The patriarch stood up on his feet, fiercely threatening the messenger with his staff.
'The sow is flitted,' cried the man. That and no more.
The old man fairly danced in a whirling triumph, cracking his fingers in the air with joy like a boy.
'My thumb for Jock!' cried he, 'the sow's flitted!'
And with that he dropped slack and senseless upon his great chair.
The Minister took my arm and led me to the louping-on stone.
'Come away,' he said sadly, 'it is no use. Ephraim hath too long been joined to his idols. Let him alone. It is as guid Maister Knox foretold. The Word of God is indeed made of none effect in Kyle and Carrick.'
CHAPTER XIII
THE TRYST AT MIDNIGHT