But in order to give the
change of mode an appearance of the natural and suitable, he managed
with a struggle to bring out the words:
"But, my brethren, let us betake ourselves to the written testimony."
Every one concluded he was going to quote from Scripture; but instead
of turning over the leaves of the Bible, he plunged his hand into the
abysses of his coat. Horror of horrors for the poor autocrat!--the
pocket was as empty as his own memory; in fact it was a mere typical
pocket, typical of the brains of its owner. The cold dew of agony broke
over him; he turned deadly pale; his knees smote one another; but he
made yet, for he was a man of strong will, a final frantic effort to
bring his discourse down the inclined plane of a conclusion.
"In fine," he stammered "my beloved brethren, if you do not repent and
be converted and return to the Lord, you will--you will--you will have
a very bad harvest."
Having uttered this solemn prediction, of the import of which he, like
some other prophets, knew nothing before he uttered it, Murdoch Malison
sat down, _a stickit minister_. His brain was a vacuum; and the thought
of standing up again to pray was intolerable.
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