"_O thou that dwellest upon many waters_," it went on again, "_abundant
in treasures, thine end is come, and the measure of thy covetousness.
The Lord of Hosts hath sworn by Himself, saying, Surely I will fill
thee with men as with caterpillars_...."

With that last word there came over me a flood of recollection. It was
spoken not in the common English way, but in the broad manner of my own
folk.... I saw in my mind's eye a wet moorland, and heard a voice
inveighing against the wickedness of those in high places.... I smelled
the foul air of the Canongate Tolbooth, and heard this same man
testifying against the vanity of the world.... "_Cawterpillars!_" It
was the voice that had once bidden me sing "Jenny Nettles."

Harsh and strident and horrible, it was yet the voice I had known, now
blaspheming Scripture words behind that gruesome sacrifice. I think I
laughed aloud. I remembered the man I had pursued my first night in
Virginia, the man who had raided Frew's cabin. I remembered Ringan's
tale of the Scots redemptioner that had escaped from Norfolk county,
and the various strange writings which had descended from the hills.
Was it not the queerest fate that one whom I had met in my boyish
scrapes should return after six years and many thousand miles to play
once more a major part in my life! The nameless general in the hills
was Muckle John Gib, once a mariner of Borrowstoneness, and some time
leader of the Sweet-Singers. I felt the smell of wet heather, and the
fishy odours of the Forth; I heard the tang of our country speech, and
the swirl of the gusty winds of home.

But in a second all thought of mirth was gone, and a deep solemnity
fell upon me. God had assuredly directed my path, for He had brought
the two of us together over the widest spaces of earth. I had no fear