“Quintin MacClellan, come your ways in. Welcome are ye as the smell o’ the supper brose,” cried Alexander Gordon, coming heartily across from the far angle of the courtyard at sight of me. “Whither away so travel-harnessed?”
“To the Upper Ward,” said I, “to make a beginning on the widest minister’s charge in Scotland.”
“You are, then, truly bent on leaving all and taking upon you the blue bonnet and the plaid of the minister of the Remnant?”
“I have already done it,” said I, “burned my boats, emptied my house, sold my plenishing and bestial. And now with my scrip and staff I go forth, whither I know not—perchance to a hole in the hedge-root and the death of a dog.”
“Tut, man,” cried Alexander Gordon, “‘tis not thus that the apostle of the Hill-folk, the bearer of their banner, should go forth. Bide at least this night with me, and I will set you up the waterside, aye, and fit you with a beast to ride on forbye.”
“I thank you from my heart, Earlstoun. This is spoken like a true man and from the full heart. Only Alexander Gordon would offer as much. But I would begin as I must end if I am to be the poor man’s minister. I must not set out on my pilgrimage riding on the back of Earlstoun’s charger. I must tramp it—moss and mountain, dub and mire. Yet, friend of mine, I could not go without bidding you a kindly adieu.”
“At least bide till the mistress and Mary can shake ye by the hand,” cried Alexander Gordon.
And with that he betook him to the nearest window, and without ceremony pushed it open, for the readiest way was ever Sandy Gordon’s way. Then he roared for his wife and daughter till the noise shook the tower like an earthquake.
In a moment Mary Gordon came out and stood on the doorstep with her fingers in her ears, pretending a pretty anger.
“What an unwholesome uproar, father! Well do they call you the Bull of Earlstoun, and say that they hear you over the hill at Ardoch bidding the herd lads to be quiet!”