“Where was it?” said I.
“It was at my mother’s knee in the turret chamber that looks to the woods, if ye want to ken.”
“What did your mother when ye had ended the lesson?”
“What is that to you, Quintin MacClellan?” he thundered, fiercely. “I tell you, torment me not!”
He snarled this out at me suddenly like the roar of a beast in a cage, thrusting forth his head at me and showing his teeth in the midst of his red beard.
“What did your mother when ye had learned your psalm?”
“She put her hands upon my head.”
“She prayed.”
“Do ye mind the words of that prayer?”