One day, a little after noon, Malcolm stepped from the house. The morning had broken gray and squally, with frequent sharp showers, and had grown into a gurly gusty day. Now and then the sun sent a dim yellow glint through the troubled atmosphere, but it was straightway swallowed up in the volumes of vapour seething and tumbling in the upper regions. As he crossed the threshold, there came a moaning wind from the west, and the water-laden branches of the trees all went bending before it, shaking their burden of heavy drops on the ground. It was dreary, dreary, outside and in. He turned and looked at the house. If he might have but one peep of the goddess far withdrawn! What did he want of her? Nothing but her favour--something acknowledged between them--some understanding of accepted worship! Alas it was all weakness, and the end thereof dismay! It was but the longing of the opium-eater or the drinker for the poison which in delight lays the foundations of torture. No; he knew where to find food--something that was neither opium nor strong drink--something that in torture sustained, and, when its fruition came, would, even in the splendours of delight, far surpass their short-lived boon! He turned towards the schoolmaster’s cottage. Under the trees, which sighed aloud in the wind, and, like earth-clouds, rained upon him as he passed, across the churchyard, bare to the gray, hopeless-looking sky, through the iron gate he went, and opened the master’s outer door. Ere he reached that of his room, he heard his voice inviting him to enter. “Come to condole with me, Malcolm?” said Mr Graham cheerily. “What for, sir?” asked Malcolm. “You haven’t heard, then, that I’m going to be sent about my business? At least, it’s more than likely.” Malcolm dropped into a seat, and stared like an idol. Could he have heard the words? In his eyes Mr Graham was the man of the place-- the real person of the parish. He dismissed! The words breathed of mingled impiety and absurdity. The schoolmaster burst out laughing at him. “I’m feart to speyk, sir,” said Malcolm. “Whatever I say, I’m bun’ to mak a fule o’ mysel’! What in plain words div ye mean, sir?” “Somebody has been accusing me of teaching heresy--in the school to my scholars, and in my own house to the fisher-folk: the presbytery has taken it up, and here is my summons to appear before them and answer to the charge.” “Guid preserve ’s, sir! And is this the first ye hae h’ard o’ ’t?” “The very first.” “An’ what are ye gauin’ to do?” “Appear, of course.” “An’ what’ll ye say to them?” “I shall answer their questions.” “They’ll condemn ye!” “I do not doubt it.” “An’ what neist?” “I shall have to leave Scotland, I suppose.” “Sir, it’s awfu’!” The horror-stricken expression of Malcolm’s face drew a second merry laugh from Mr Graham. “They can’t burn me,” he said: “you needn’t look like that.” “But there’s something terrible wrang, sir, whan sic men hae pooer ower sic a man.”