"
"Cudna ye fin' the twenty-third psalm????-But jist ae thing mair, Mr
Turnbull, and syne I'll haud my tongue," resumed Thomas.???-"Jeames
Johnstone, will ye rin ower to my hoose, and fess the Bible? It's lyin'
upo' the drawers. Ye canna mistak' it.???-Jist hae patience till he comes
back, sir, and we'll see hoo Mr Bruce'll read the inscription. I wad
hae made nothing o' 't, gin it hadna been for a frien' o' mine. But Mr
Bruce is a scholar, an' 'll read the Laitin till 's."
By this time James Johnstone was across the street.
"There's some foul play in this," cried Bruce, out of the darkness. "My
enemy maun sen' for an ootlandish speech and a heathen tongue to
insnare ane o' the brethren!"
Profound silence followed. All sat expectant. The snuff of the candles
grew longer and longer. Even the energetic Richard, who had opposed the
Scripture single-handed, forgot his duty in the absorbing interest of
the moment. Every ear was listening for the footsteps of the returning
weaver, bringing the Bible of the parish-clergyman into the
half-unhallowed precincts of a conventicle. At a slight motion of one
of the doors, an audible start of expectation broke like an electric
spark from the still people.
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