Yet I misdoubted that I had brought my folk into a trouble which might in the event prove a grievous enough one for them.
But a kind Providence watched over them and me. For even when it came to the stormiest, the wind ceased and there was a blissful breathing time of quietness and peace.
Also there was that happened about this time which brought us at least for a time assurance and security within our borders.
It was, as I remember it, a gurly night in late September, the wind coming in gusts and swirling flaws from every quarter, very evidently blowing up for a storm.
Hob had come in silently and set him down by the fire. He was peeling a willow wand for his basket-weaving and looking into the embers. I could hear Martha Little, our sharp-tongued servant lass, clattering among her pots and pans in the kitchen. As for me I was among my books, deep in Greek, which to my shame I had been somewhat neglecting of late.
Suddenly there came a loud knocking at the outer door.
I looked at my plaid hung up to dry, and bethought me who might be ill and in want of my ministrations upon such a threatening night.
I could hear Martha go to the door, and the low murmur of voices without.
Then the door of the chamber opened and I saw the faces and forms of half-a-dozen men in the passage.
“It has come at last,” thought I, for I expected that it might be the Sheriff and his men come to expel me from the kindly shelter of the manse. And though I should have submitted, I knew well that there would be bloodshed on the morrow among my poor folk.