“Gien a body comes to oor meetin’,” cried one of them, a fine specimen of the _argle-bargling_ Scotchman--a creature known and detested over the habitable globe--“he maun jist du as we du, an’ sit it oot. It’s for yer sowl’s guid.” The preacher, checked in full career, was standing with open mouth, ready to burst forth in a fresh flood of oratory so soon as the open channels of hearing ears should be again granted him; but all were now intent on the duel between the marquis and Jamie Ladle. “If, the next time you came, you found the entrance barricaded,” said the marquis, “what would you say to that?” “Ow, we wad jist tak doon the sticks,” answered Ladle. “You would call it _persecution_, wouldn’t you?” “Ay; it wad be that.” “And what do you call it now, when you prevent a man from going his own way, after he has had enough of your foolery?” “Ow, we ca’ ’t dissiplene!” answered the fellow. The marquis got down, annoyed, but laughing at his own discomfiture. “I’ve stopped the screaming, anyhow,” he said. Ere the preacher, the tap of whose eloquence presently began to yield again, but at first ran very slow, had gathered way enough to carry his audience with him, a woman rushed up to the mouth of the cave, the borders of her cap flapping, and her grey hair flying like an old Maenad’s. Brandishing in her hand a _spurtle_ with which she had been making the porridge for supper, she cried in a voice that reached every ear: “What’s this I hear o’ ’t! Come oot o’ that, Lizzy, ye limmer! Ir ye gauin’ frae ill to waur, i’ the deevil’s name!” It was Meg Partan. She sent the congregation right and left from her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side of her bows. Men and women gave place to her, and she went surging into the midst of the assembly. “Whaur’s that lass o’ mine?” she cried, looking about her in aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. “She’s no verra weel, Mrs Findlay,” cried Mrs Catanach, in a loud whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. “She’ll be better in a meenute. The minister’s jist _ower_ pooerfu’ the nicht.” Mrs Findlay made a long reach, caught Lizzy by the arm, and dragged her forth, looking scared and white, with a red spot upon one cheek. No one dared to bar Meg’s exit with her prize; and the marquis, with Lady Florimel and Malcolm, took advantage of the opening she made, and following in her wake soon reached the open air. Mrs Findlay was one of the few of the fisher-women who did not approve of conventicles, being a great stickler for every authority in the country except that of husbands, in which she declared she did not believe: a report had reached her that Lizzy was one of the lawless that evening, and in hot haste she had left the porridge on the fire to drag her home.