When it came to the sermon, however, things went better; for MacLeod was the preacher,--an eloquent man after his kind, in virtue of the genuine earnestness of which he was full. If his anxiety for others appeared to be rather to save them from the consequences of their sins, his main desire for himself certainly was to be delivered from evil; the growth of his spiritual nature, while it rendered him more and more dissatisfied with himself, had long left behind all fear save of doing wrong. His sermon this evening was founded on the text: “The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God.” He spoke fervently and persuasively; nor, although his tone and accent were odd, and his Celtic modes and phrases to those Saxon ears outlandish, did these peculiarities in the least injure the influence of the man. Even from Florimel was the demon of laughter driven; and the marquis, although not a single notion of what the man intended passed through the doors of his understanding, sat quiet, and disapproved of nothing. Possibly, had he been alone as he listened, he too, like one of old, might have heard, in the dark cave, the still small voice of a presence urging him forth to the light; but, as it was, the whole utterance passed without a single word or phrase or sentence having roused a thought, or suggested a doubt, or moved a question, or hinted an objection or a need of explanation. That the people present should interest themselves in such things, only set before him the folly of mankind. The text and the preacher both kept telling him that such as he could by no possibility have the slightest notion what _such things_ were; but not the less did he, as if he knew all about them, wonder how the deluded fisher-folk could sit and listen. The more tired he grew, the more angry he got with the parson who had sent him there with his foolery: and the more convinced that the men who prayed and preached were as honest as they were silly; and that the thing to die of itself had only to be let alone. He heard the Amen of the benediction with a sigh of relief, and rose at once-- cautiously this time. “Ye maunna gang yet, my lord,” said Malcolm. “They maun be a’ oot first.” “I don’t care who sees me,” protested the weary man. “But yer lordship wadna like to be descriet scram’lin’ doon efter the back like the bear in Robinson Crusoe!” The marquis grumbled, and yielded impatiently. At length Malcolm, concluding from the silence that the meeting had thoroughly _skailed_, peeped cautiously out to make sure. But after a moment, he drew back, saying in a regretful whisper,-- “I’m sorry ye canna gang yet, my lord. There’s some half a dizzen o’ ill-luikin’ chields, cairds (_gipsies_), I’m thinkin’, or maybe waur, congregat doon there, an’ it’s my opingon they’re efter nae guid, my lord.” “How do you know that?” “Ony body wad ken that, ’at got a glimp o’ them.” “Let me look.”