Time and again the Sheriff tried, now threatening and now cajoling; but equally to no purpose.
At last he grew tired.
“This is a thankless job,” he said, turning him about; “let them send their soldiers. I am not obliged to fight for it.”
And so with a “right about” and a wave of the hand he took his valiant horsemen off by the way they came.
And as they went they say that many a youth turned him on his saddle to cast a longing look upon Alexander-Jonita, who stood there tall and straight in the place where she had so boldly confronted the Sheriff.
Then the women sang a psalm, while Alexander-Jonita, leaping on a horse, rode a musket-shot behind the retiring force, till she had seen them safely across the river at the fords of Glenlochar, and so finally out of the parish bounds.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE ELDERS OF THE HILL FOLK.
(The Narrative taken up again by Quintin MacClellan.)
It was long before I could see clearly the way I should go, after that dismal day and night of which I have told the tale.
It seemed as if there was no goodness on the earth, no use in my work, no right or excellency in the battle I had fought and the sacrifice I had made. Ought I not even now to give way? Surely God had not meant a man so poor in spirit, so easily cast down to hold aloft the standard of his ancient kirk.
But nevertheless, here before me and around me, a present duty, were my parish and my poor folk, so brave and loyal and steadfast. Could I forsake them? Daily I heard tidings of their struggling with the arm of flesh, though I now judge that Hob, in some fear of my disapproval, would not venture to tell me all.