As Yuill spoke the quick rub-a-dub of a drum was heard.

"The soldiers!" Gavin let go his hold of the old man, who hastened
away to give himself up.

"That's no the sojers," said a woman; "it's the folk gathering in
the square. This'll be a watery Sabbath In Thrums."

"Rob Dow," shouted Gavin, as Dow flung past with a scythe in his
hand, "lay down that scythe."

"To hell wi' religion!" Rob retorted, fiercely; "it spoils a'
thing."

"Lay down that scythe; I command you."

Rob stopped undecidedly, then cast the scythe from him, but its
rattle on the stones was more than he could bear.

"I winna," he cried, and, picking it up, ran to the square.

An upper window in Bank Street opened, and Dr. McQueen put out his
head. He was smoking as usual.

"Mr. Dishart," he said, "you will return home at once if you are a
wise man; or, better still, come in here. You can do nothing with
these people to-night."

"I can stop their fighting."