“Go on, Mr. Duthie. I can blush without going to the manse for it.”
“An evil image has been set up upon my gate,” he continued, raising his voice as though to cry down her levity, “an idolatrous picture. I think shame that the weans ganging by to the schule should see it. But I rejoice that there’s mony o’ them doesna’ ken wha it is.”
“Fie, Mr. Duthie! Is it Venus?”
“It has idolatrous garments,” continued he, with the loud monotony of one shouting against a tempest, “and a muckle crown on its head——”
“Then it is not Venus,” observed she. “Venus goes stripped.”
“It is the Pope of Rome,” went on Mr. Duthie; “I kent him when I saw the gaudy claes o’ him and the heathen vanities on his pow. I kent it was himsel’! And it was written at the foot o’ him, forbye that. Ay, madam, there was writing too. There was a muckle bag out frae his mou’ wi’ wicked words on it! ‘Come awa’ to Babylon wi’ me, Mr. Duthie.’ I gar’d the beadle run for water and a clout, for I could not thole that sic’ a thing should be seen.”
“And you left the Pope?” said Madam Flemington.
“I did,” replied the minister. “I would wish to let ye see to whatlike misuse Airchie has put his talents.”
“And how do you know it was Archie’s work?”