“No, my bairn!” she cried. “Married or single ye shall not go forth from us thus!”
“Hold your tongue, woman!” roared the Bull, shaking the very firmament with his voice.
“Be not feared, my lass; ye shall have your mother’s countenance, though your father cast you off,” said Janet Gordon, nodding at us with unexpected graciousness.
“Hold your peace, I tell you!”
“Aye, Sandy, when I have done!”
“Though he turn you to the doorstep I will pray for you,” she went on; “and for company on the way I will give you a copy of my meditations, which are most meet and precious.”
Her husband laughed a quick, mocking laugh.
“A bundle of clean sarks wad fit them better—but here comes the minister.”
I turned about somewhat shamefacedly, and there, bowing to the Laird of Earlstoun, was young Gilchrist of Dunscore, whom the Presbytery of Dumfries had lately deposed. He was about to begin a speech of congratulation, but the Bull broke through.
“Marry these two!” he commanded.