"It's a gey thumper," replied mine host; "big aneuch, I hope, to see oot the siege o' Leith."
"Ay, the heretic is pressing us hard, David. The strength of the wicked is prevailing," said Father Drinkhooly; "but there will be a day of count and reckoning. It is coming, David, coming on the wings of the thunder, to blast and destroy the sacrilegious spoilers; to scaith and render barren this accursed land."
"Weel, I wadna wonder," replied David, looking very serious; for, although he cared little for either the new religion or the old, he had, if anything, rather a leaning towards the latter; at least, so was suspected; but this was a point not easily decided on, owing to the very accommodating nature of David's doctrines, which, at a moment's notice, could adapt themselves to any circumstances.
"I wadna wonder," said David; "for I'm sure the spoilin and ravagin that's gaun on is aneuch to bring down the judgments o' Heaven on us. Heard ye if there hae been mony killed the day?"
"Alas! a very great number," replied Father Drinkhooly. "There has been a terrible slaughter to-day, at the western block-house. The brethren and I have shrived some twenty or thirty departing souls, who fell by the cannon-shot of the enemy—two of them officers and men of rank in the French army—worthy, pious men—who have left something considerable to the brotherhood. But God knows if we will be permitted te enjoy it."
"Ay," said David, pricking up his ears, as he always did when money, or property in any shape, became the subject of conversation—"That was a lucky wind-fa'; for I daresay the brethren are no oot o' need o' a wee assistance o' that kind enow. Times are no wi' them as they used to be. What feck, noo, if it's a fair question, did the twa Frenchmen leave ye?"
"It's not usual for us to speak of these things, David," replied Father Drinkhooly—"not usual for us to make these things the subject of irreverent discussion; but, as thou art an old friend, I will gratify thy curiosity—doing the same in confidence. Here," continued the worthy father, slipping his hand under his cloak, and drawing out a leathern bag well stored with coin, "here are a hundred and fifty crowns of the sun placed in my hands by one of these dying Christians, and here are three gold rings, worth fifty merks each, that were given unto me by the other, under pledge of saying fifteen masses for the well-being of the soul of the departed donor."
"My feth! no a bad day's work," said David. "It's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid. The siege is no like to be such a bad job for ye, after a'. Though ye should be driven oot o' the preceptory the morn, ye'll no gang empty-handed; and that same's a blessin. But here's to ye, father, and Gude send us mair peacefu' times;" saying this, mine host of "The Ship" cleared off the remainder of the tankard. On his replacing the latter on the table, brother Drinkhooly peered into the empty vessel with a half involuntary spirit of inquiry.
His host smiled. Then—"We maun replenish, I fancy," he said.
Father Drinkhooly simply nodded acquiescence, saying not a word.