“Come back, ye yellow neegur! we’ll no send ye!—stop him! Come back, ye squiff, and we’ll gie ye a dead subject!—Stop the resurrectionist!—After him, gie him a paik, and see if he’s but a batch o’ badger skins dyed yellow—hurrah!”
Sinclair wishing, for several reasons, to be clear at once of the mob, was in the act of springing over the dyke into the plantation already mentioned, when he was struck by a stick on the head, which brought him back senseless to the ground. The crowd was instantly around the prostrate youth, and in the caprice or better pity of human nature, began to be sorry for his pale condition.
“It was a pity to strike the puir lad that gate,” said one. “Some folk shouldna been sae rash the day, I think,” remarked another. “Stand back,” cried Tam Jaffray, pushing from right to left; “stand back, and gie the puir fallow air. Back, Jamieson, wi’ your shauchled shins; it was you that cried first that he was a resurrectionist.”
The clergyman now advanced and asked what was the matter.
“It’s only a yellow yorlin we’ve catched in the aisle,” cried an insolent clown, who aspired to be the prime wit of the village; “he was a bare gorblin a few minutes syne, and now he’s full feathered.” This provoked a laugh from groundlings of the same stamp, and the fellow, grinning himself, was tempted to try another bolt,—“And he’s gayan weel tamed by this time.”
“Peace, fellow,” said the minister, who had now seen what was wrong; “peace, sir, and do not insult the unfortunate. I am ashamed of all this.”
By the directions of the clergyman, the poor prodigal was carried into the manse, where he soon recovered from the immediate stunning effects of the blow he had received.
“How is all this?” was his first question of surprise, addressed to his host. “May I request to know, sir, why I am here?”
“In virtue of a rash blow, which we all regret,” answered the minister.
“I crave your pardon, sir,” returned the youth. “I can now guess that I am much indebted to your kindness.”