Though Boyd Connoway had not said anything directly threatening the house of Heathknowes or its inmates, his story of his own “conversion” and the death of Dick Wilkes under the Black Flag somehow made us vaguely uneasy. The door of the house was locked at eight. The gates of the yard barricaded as in the old time of the sea raids from the Golden Hind.

So strong was the feeling that Irma would gladly have returned before our time to the little White House above the meadow flats, and to the view of the Pentlands turning a solid green butt towards the Archers’ Hall of the Guid Toon of Edinburgh.

But it was not so easy to quit Heathknowes. My grandmother held tightly to Duncan the Second. I found myself in good case, after the fatigues of the town, to carry out some work on my own account. This, of course, for the sake of my wife’s happiness, I would have given up, but after all Irma’s plans went to pieces upon the invincible determination of Sir Louis to remain. He was now a lad of seventeen, but older looking than his age. He had his own room at Heathknowes, his books, his occupations. Indeed we seldom saw him except at meals, and even then often in the middle of dinner he would rise, bow haughtily to the company, and retire without uttering a word. He had learned the lesson from Lalor that plain farm people were no society for such as he. He went as far as he could in the way of insolence, making us pay for the refusal of the lawyers to let him go to London with the member for the county.

I could see the blush rise crimson to Irma’s neck and face after such a performance. But by some mysterious divine law of compensation, no sooner had she Baby in her arms, than she forgot all about the sulky boy, sitting moping among his books in the wood parlour, looking out on the red-boled firs of Marnhoul forest.

Israel Kinmont used to frequent us a good deal about this time. He never preached to us, nor indeed would he talk freely of his “experiences” amongst such Calvinists as my grandfather and grandmother.

“The gold of the kingdom doth not need the refiner’s art!” he had said once when this remissness was made a reproach to him. Since the loss of his boat, the Tabernacle, he had bought first one donkey and then two with his little savings. These he loaded with salt for Cairn Edward and the farms on the way, and so by a natural transition, took to the trade of itinerant voyager on land instead of on the sea, bringing back a store of such cloths and spices as were in most request among the goodwives of the farm-towns.

He had been so long a sailor man that he could not help it, if a certain flavour of the brine clung to him still. Besides, there were jerseys and great sea-boots to be worn out. Neddy and Teddy, his two fine donkeys, were soon fitted with “steering gear,” among the intricacies of which their active heels often got “foul.” They “ran aground” with alarming frequency, scraping their pack-saddles against the walls of narrow lanes. Their master knew no peace of mind till, having passed the narrows, he found on some moor or common “plenty o’ sea-room,” notwithstanding the danger that “plenty o’ sea-room” might induce the too artful Teddy to “turn topsails under,” or in other words indulge in a roll upon the grass.

Finally, Neddy and Teddy were “brought to anchor” in some friendly stable, in none oftener than in ours of Heathknowes, where cargo was unloaded and sometimes even the ships themselves “docked” and laid up for repairs. For this merciful Israel was merciful to his beasts, and often went into repairing dock for a saddle gall, which another would never have even noticed.

When the pair were browsing free in the field he would call them “to receive cargo,” and hoist the Blue Peter by a sounding, “Neddy, ahoy! Ahoy there, Teddy!” And if, as was likely, they only flourished their heels and refused with scorn to come and be saddled, he uttered his sternest summons, “Ship’s company, all hands on deck!” which meant that his son Jacob—starboard watch, must come and help port watch—Israel himself, to capture Teddy and Neddy.

Neddy was generally willing enough, unless when led from the plain course of maritime duty by Teddy. On these occasions Israel used to quote from the “articles” relating to the Mutiny Act, and has even been known to go so far as threaten Teddy with “a round dozen” at the main-mast as soon as he could lay hands on a “rope’s end.”

The which was all the same to Teddy.

It was beautiful to see the flotilla navigating the level surface of Killantringan moor—level, that is, by comparison. For first there were the little waves of the sheep-tracks, then the gentle rollers of the moss-hags, and, last of all, certain black dangerous MaÉlstroms from which last year’s peats had been dug, in which a moment’s folly on the part of Neddy or Teddy might engulf the Armada for ever.

As they set sail Jacob Kinmont was first and second mate, but in particular, look-out-man. He went ahead, keeping a wary eye for dangers and obstacles, and on the whole the donkeys followed docilely enough in his wake. Israel’s post as captain was behind at the tiller-ropes, whence he shouted exact instructions with nautical exactitude, such as “A point to the west, Neddy!” Or, pathetically, “DID I say nor’-nor’-east, Teddy, or didn’t I?”

This last had a ring of affection in it, for, in spite of his naughty habits (or because of them) Teddy was distinctly the favourite. Also he had a habit of nuzzling his moist nose into the breast of the old man’s reefer coat in search of sweet things, a trick which the more patient and reliable Neddy never acquired. And if Teddy forgot to come inquiring after the hidden sweets, Israel was quite heart-broken.

At first the boys from the village would follow and perhaps imitate these naval manoeuvres—in the hope, never fulfilled, of catching “Ranter Israel” using some nautical language, such as old Pirate Wilkes had made but too familiar to their ears. But they never caught him, for Israel’s “yea” remained “yea” and his “nay” “nay,” even when navigating donkeys over the trackless waste of Killantringan Common. But in revenge, every now and then, Israel would get hold of a village lad and lead him triumphantly to his meeting, whence he would not come forth till, as like as not, “he had gotten the blessin’.”

The fathers of Eden Valley held in utter contempt the theology of “Old Tabernacle Israel,” but the mothers, seeing a troublesome boy forsaking the error of his ways and settling down to be the comfort of his folk—looked more to results, and thanked God for old Israel and his Tabernacle. After a while the fathers also came to be of his opinion. And on one memorable occasion, the great Doctor Gillespie himself went in by the door of Israel’s tar-smelling Tabernacle, and seated himself in all the glory of his black coat and ruffled shirt on the back seat among the riff-raff of the port, just as if he were nobody at all.

At first Israel did not see him, so quietly had he entered. He went on with his prayer that “sinners might be turned from their way, and saints confirmed in their most holy faith.”

But when he had opened his eyes, and beheld the white head and reverend countenance of Doctor Gillespie the human soul within him trembled a little. Nevertheless, commanding himself, he descended the narrow aisle till he came to where the minister was seated. Then with head humbly bent and a voice that shook, he begged that “the Doctor might to-day open up the Word of Life to them.” Which accordingly, with the simplest directness, the Doctor did, using as his pulpit the middle section of a longboat, which had been sawn across and floored for Israel. The Doctor told the story of Peter walking on the waters, and of the hand stretched out to save. And this the Doctor, as Israel said afterwards, “fastened into them with nails.”

“Some of you will believe anything except the Gospel,” was one of these. Yet all he said was the simplest evangel. The Doctor was a Justice of the Peace, but this time he spoke of another peace—that of believing. He had an audience of smugglers, but he never mentioned CÆsar. He only advised them to “Render unto God the things that are God’s.”And when he finished, after the last solemn words of exhortation, he added very quietly, “I will again preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ in the Parish Kirk, next Sabbath at noonday.”

And so when the Sabbath came and in the Tabernacle those of Israel’s sowing and gleaning were gathered together, the old Ranter addressed them thus: “All hands on deck to worship with the Doctor! He hath kept his watch with us—let us do the like by him!”

And so the astonishing thing was seen. The great Spence gallery of Eden Valley Parish Kirk was filled with such a mixed assembly as had never been seen there before. Smugglers, privateersmen, the sweepings of ports, home and foreign, some who had blood on their hands—though with the distinction that it had been shed in encounters with excisemen. But the blessing had come upon some of them—others a new spirit had touched, lighted at the fire of an almost apostolic enthusiasm.

It was the proudest moment in Israel Kinmont’s life when he heard the Doctor, in all the panoply of his gown and bands, hold up his hands and ask for a blessing upon “the new shoot of Thy Vine, planted by an aged servant of Thine in this parish. Make it strong for Thyself, that the hills may be covered with the shadow of it, and that, like the goodly cedar, many homeless and wayfaring men under it may rest and find shelter.”

And in the Spence gallery these sea- and wayfaring men nudged each other, not perhaps finding the meaning so clear as they did at the Tabernacle, but convinced, nevertheless, that “He means us—and our old Israel!”

And so in faith, if not wholly in understanding, they listened to the sermon in which the Doctor, all unprepared for such an invasion, inculcated with much learning the doctrine of submission to the civil magistrate with the leading cases of Saint Paul and Saint Augustine illustrated by copious quotations from the original.

They sat with fixed attention, never flinching even when the Doctor, doing his duty, as he said, both as a magistrate and as a Christian man, gave the Free Traders many a word to make their ears sing. They were in his place, and every man had the right to speak as he chose in his own house. But when Israel led them back to the old Tabernacle, with its pleasant smell of tar obscuring the more ancient bilge, and had told them that they were all “a lot of hell-deserving sinners who, if they missed eternal damnation, it would be with their rags badly singed,” they sighed a blissful sigh and felt themselves once more at home, sitting under a man who understood them and their needs.

Nevertheless, when Israel gave out the closing hymn it was one which, as he explained, “prays for the Church of God visible upon the earth, as well in the Parish Kirk as in their own little Tabernacle.” “Now then, men,” he concluded, “let us have it with a will. Put all that you have got between your beards and your shoulder-blades into it. If I see a man hanging in stays, he shall sing it by himself!”

So the Ranters sang till the sound went from the little dissenting Bethel on the shore up to the stately Kirk of the parish cinctured with its double acre of ancient grave-stones—

“I love Thy Kingdom, Lord,
The house of Thine abode:
The Church our blest Redeemer saved
With His own precious blood.

For her my tears shall fall,
For her my prayers ascend:
To her my cares and toils be given
Till toils and cares shall end!“

“And three cheers for the Doctor!” shouted swearing Imrie, who had been worked up by the events of the day to such a pitch of excitement that only the sound of his own thunderous voice had power to calm him.

And douce Cameronians coming over Eden Valley hill stood still and wondered at the profanation of the holy day, not knowing. Even sober pillars of the Kirk Erastian going homeward smiled and shook their heads pityingly.

“It was doubtless a good thing,” said my father to a fellow elder, a certain McMinn of the Croft, “to see so many of the wild and regardless at the Kirk, but I’m sore mistaken if there’s not some of the old Adam left in the best of them yet, to judge by the noise they are making down yonder.”

“Except Israel himsel’!” said McMinn of the Croft, “man, dominie, since he converted Jock, my ploughman, he hasna been drunk yince, and I get twice the work oot o’ the craitur for the same wage.”

Which, being the proof of the pudding, settled the question.