of the issue. I should master Muckle John as I had mastered him before.
My awe was all for God's mysterious dealing, not for that poor fool
posturing behind his obscene sacrifice. His voice rose and fell in
eldritch screams and hollow moans. He was mouthing the words of some
Bible Prophet.

"_A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the
mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as
women. A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a
drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the
land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols_."

Every syllable brought back some memory. He had the whine and sough in
his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and
imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer
morn. And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the
Sweet-Singer.

"_Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will bring a King of kings from
the north, with horses and with chariots, and with horsemen and
companies and muck people. He shall slay with the sword thy daughters
in the field_...."

"Fine words," I thought; "but Elspeth laid her whip over your
shoulders, my man."

"... _With the hoofs of his horses shall he tread down all thy streets.
He shall slay thy people by the sword, and thy strong garrisons shall
go down to the ground.... And I will cause the music of thy songs to
cease, and the sound of thy harps shall no more be heard."_