"They're
dreadfu' to hearken till. I s' warran' He's as kin'-hertit as yersel."
James had no reputation for piety, though much for truthfulness and
honesty. Nor had he any idea how much lay in the words he had hastily
uttered. A light-gleam grew and faded on Thomas's face.
"I said, he micht be _forced_ to sen' me efter a'."
"What, Thomas!" cried Cupples. "He _cudna_ save ye! Wi' the Son and the
Speerit to help him? And a willin' hert in you forbye? Fegs! ye hae a
greater opinion o' Sawtan nor I gied ye the discredit o'."
"Na, na; it's nae Sawtan. It's mysel'. I wadna lay mair wyte (blame)
upo' Sawtan's shouthers nor's his ain. He has eneuch already, puir
fallow!"
"Ye'll be o' auld Robbie Burns's opinion, that he 'aiblins micht still
hae a stake.'"
"Na, na; he has nane. Burns was nae prophet."
"But jist suppose, Thomas???-gin the de'il war to repent."
"Man!" exclaimed the stonemason, rising to his full height with slow
labour after the day's toil, "it wad be cruel to gar _him_ repent. It
wad be ower sair upon him. Better kill him. The bitterness o' sic
repentance wad be ower terrible. It wad be mair nor he cud bide. It wad
brak his hert a'thegither.
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