A deacon of the church, a worthy little weaver, had been
half-officially appointed to visit Thomas, and find out, which was not
an easy task, if he was in want of anything. When he arrived, Jean was
out. He lifted the latch, entered, and tapped gently at Thomas's
door--too gently, for he received no answer. With hasty yet hesitating
imprudence, he opened the door and peeped in. Thomas was upon his knees
by the fire-side, with his plaid over his head. Startled by the
weaver's entrance, he raised his head, and his rugged leonine face, red
with wrath, glared out of the thicket of his plaid upon the intruder.
He did not rise, for that would have been a task requiring time and
caution. But he cried aloud in a hoarse voice, with his two hands
leaning on the chair, like the paws of some fierce rampant animal:
"Jeames, ye're takin' the pairt o' Sawton upo' ye, drivin' a man frae
his prayers!"
"Hoot, Thamas! I beg yer pardon," answered the weaver, rather flurried;
"I thoucht ye micht hae been asleep."
"Ye had no business to think for yersel' in sic a maitter. What do ye
want?"
"I jist cam' to see whether _ye_ war in want o' onything, Thamas."
"I'm in want o' naething.
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