So the service being ended for the day, I walked quietly over to Drumglass with Jean and her father. There I found a house well furnished, oxen and kine knee-deep in water, meadows, pastures, crofts of oats and bear in the hollows about the door, and over all such an air of bien and hospitable comfort that the place beckoned me to abide there.

Nathan Gemmell went beside me, regaling me with tales of the ancient days spoken in the broad and honourable sounding speech of the province.

“Hear ye, laddie,” he said, “gin ye come to the pairish o’ Balmaghie ye will need the legs o’ a racer horse, and the airms o’ Brawny Kim, the smith o’ Carlinwark. Never a chiel has been fit to be the minister o’ Balmaghie since Auld Mess Hairry died!

“He was a man—losh me, but he was a man!

“I tell ye, sir, this pairish needs its releegion tightly threshed into it wi’ a flail. Sax change-houses doon there hae I kenned oot o’ seven cot-houses at the Kirk-clachan o’ Shandkfoot, and a swearin’, drinkin’ set in ilka yin o’ them.

“And siccan reamin swatrochs of Hollands an’ French brandy, lad! Every man toomin’ his glass and cryin’ for mair, tossing it ower their thrapples hand ower fist, as hard as the sweatin’ landlords could open the barrels. And the ill words and the fechtin’—Lord, callant, ye never heard the like! They tell me that ye come frae the Kells. A puir feckless lot they are in the Kells! Nae spirit in their drink. Nae power or variety in their oaths and cursings!

“But Balmaghie!—-- That was a pairish in the old time, till Mess Hairry came in the days after John Knox. He had been a Papish priest some-gate till he had turned his cassock alang wi’ dour black Jock o’ the Hie Kirk o’ Edinburgh. But Mess Hairry they aye caa’ed him, for a’ that. And there were some that said he hadna turned that very far, but was a Papish as great as ever under the black Geneva gown!

“For he wad whiles gie them swatches o’ the auld ill-tongued Laitin, till the folk kenned na whether they werena bein’ made back again into limbs o’ Rome, and their leave never so much as speered.

“But Pope or reform, mass or sacrament, the pairish cared no a bursten chanter. Doon at the clachans the stark Hollands flowed like the water in a running spate, and the holy day o’ the Sabbath was their head time for the evil wark—that is, till Mess Hairry cam’, and oh, but he was the maisterfu’ man, as my auld grandfaither used to say. What did he?—man, I will tell ye. And let it be a lesson to ye, young man, gin ye come to the pairish o’ Balmaghie. The folk here like a tairgin’ maisterfu’ man. Hark ye to that! They canna bide chiels that only peep and mutter. The lads atween the waters o’ Dee and Ken tak’ a man maistly at his ain valuation, and if a minister thinks na muckle o’ himself—haith, they will e’en jaloose that he kens best, and no think muckle o’ him either!

“At ony rate, the drinking gaed on, as I was tellin’ ye, till yae day it cam’ to a head. There had been a new cargo brought into the Briggus—it was afore the days o’ the ill-set customs duties—foul fa’ them and the officers that wad keep a man frae brewin’ his decent wormfu’, or at least gar him tak’ the bother o’ doin’ it in the peat-stack or on some gairy-face instead o’ openly on his kitchen floor.

“But be that as it may, it was when Mess Hairry was at his fencing prayer in the kirk on a Sabbath, as it micht be on this day o’ June. He was just leatherin’ aff the words that fast the folk couldna tell whether he is giein’ them guid Scots or ill-contrived Laitin, when Mess Hairry stops and cocks his lug doon the kirk like a collie that hears a strange fit in the loanin’.

“The folk listens, too, and then they heard the ower word o’ a gye coarse sang from the clachan doon by, and the Muckle Miller o’ Barnboard, Black Coskery, leadin’ it wi’ a voice like the thunder on Knockcannon.

“There was nae mair sermon that day. Mess Hairry gied them but ae word. I wasna there, for I wasna born; but the granddaddy o’ me was then a limber loon, and followed after to see what wad befa’. ‘The sermon will be applied in the clachan this day in the name o’ God and the blessed saints,’ cried Mess Hairry.

“So the auld priest claught to him a great oak clickie stick he had brocht frae some enchanted wood, and doon the kirk road he linkit wi’ strides that were near sax foot frae tae to heel. Lord, but he swankit it that day.

“And ever as he gaed the nearer, louder and louder raise Barnboard’s chorus, ‘The deil he cam’ to our loan en’’—till ye could hear the verra window-frames dirl.

“But Mess Hairry he strode like the angel o’ destruction to the door o’ the first hoose. The bar was pushed, for it was sermon time, and they had that muckle respect. But the noise within was fearsome. Mess Hairry set the broad sole o’ his foot to the hasp, and, man, he drave her in as if she had been paper. It was a low door as a’ Galloway doors are. The minister dooked doon his heid, and in he gaed. Nane expected ever to see him come oot in life again, and a’ the folk were thinking on the disgrace that the pairish wad come under for killin’ the man that had been set over them in the things o’ the Lord. For bravely they kenned that Black Coskery wad never listen to a word o’ advice, but, bein’ drunk as Dauvid’s soo, wad strike wi’ sword, or shoot wi’ pistol as soon as drink another gill.

“There was an awesome pause after Mess Hairry gaed ben.

“The folk they stood aboot the doors and they held up their hands in peety. ‘Puir man,’ they said; ‘they are killin’ him the noo. There’s Black Coskery yellin’ at the rest to keep him doon and finish him where he lies. Puir man, puir man! What a death to dee, murdered in a change-hoose on the Lord’s Day o’ Rest, when he micht hae been by “Thirdly” in his sermon and clearin’ the points o’ doctrine wi’ neither tinker nor miller fashin’ him! This comes o’ meddlin’ wi’ the cursed drink.’

“Wilder and ever wilder grew the din. It was like baith Keltonhill Fair and Tongland Sacrament on a wet day. They had shut the doors when the priest gaed in to keep him close and do for him on the spot.

“My grand-daddy telled me that there was some ga’ed awa’ for the bier-trams and the mort-claiths to carry the corpse to the manse to be ready for his coffining!

“If they gang on like that there will no be enough left o’ him to hand thegither till they row him in his shroud! Hear till the wild renegades!

“And ever the thresh, thresh o’ terrible blows was heard, yells o’ pain an’ mortal fear.

“‘Mercy! Mercy! For the Lord’s dear sake, hae mercy!’

“The door burst frae its hinges and fell blaff on the road!

“‘They are bringin’ him oot noo. Puir man, but he will be an awesome sicht!’

“There cam’ a pour o’ men folk frae ’tween the lintels, some bareheaded, wi’ the red bluid rinnin’ frae aboot their brows, some wi’ the coats fair torn frae their backs—every man o’ them wild wi’ fear.

“‘They hae murdered him! Black Coskery has murdered him,’ cried the folk withoot. ‘And the ither lads are feared o’ the judgment for the bluid o’ the man o’ God.’

“But it wasna that—indeed, far frae that. For on the back o’ the men skailin’, there cam’ oot o’ the cot-hoose wha but Mess Hairry, and he had Black Coskery by the feet trailin’ him heid doon oot o’ the door. He flang him in the ditch like a wat dish-clout. Syne he gied his lang black coat a bit hitch aboot his loins wi’ a cord, like a butcher that has mair calves to kill. Then he makes for the next change-hoose. But they had gotten the warnin’. They never waited to argue, but were oot o’ the window, carrying wi’ them sash and a’—so they say.

“And so even thus it was wi’ the lave. The grace o’ God was triumphant in the Kirk Clachan o’ Ba’maghie that day.

“They took up a’ that was mortal o’ Black Coskery to the Barnboard on the bier they had gotten ready for the minister. He got better, but he was never the same man again; for whenever he let his voice be heard, or got decently fechtin’ drunk, some callant wad be sure to get ahint a tree and cry, ‘Rin, Coskery, here’s Mess Hairry.’ He couldna bide that, but cowered like a weel-lickit messan tyke.

“When they gaed into the first change-hoose, they say that the floor was a sicht to see. A’ thing driven to kindlin’ wood; for Mess Hairry had never waited to gie a word o’ advice, but had keeled ower Black Coskery wi’ ae stroke o’ his oak clickie on the haffets. Then, faith, he took the fechtin’ miller by the feet and swung him aboot his head as if he had been a flail.

“Never was there sic fechtin’ seen in the Stewartry. The men fell ower like nine-pins, and were richt glad to crawl to the door. But for a judgment on them it was close steekit, for they had shut it to be sure o’ Mess Hairry.

“They were far ower sure o’ him, and they say that if the hinges had no’ given way it micht hae been the waur for some o’ them.

“And that was the way that Mess Hairry preached the Gospel in Ba’maghie. Ow, it’s him that had the poo’er—at least, that’s what my granddaddy telled me.

“Ow, aye’ Ba’maghie needs a maisterfu’ man. But we’ll never see the like o’ Mess Hairry—rest his soul. He was indeed a miracle o’ grace.”