Out of the church the blind Duncan strode with long, confident strides. He had no staff to aid him, for he never carried one when in his best clothes; but he leaned proudly on Malcolm’s arm, if one who walked so erect could be said to lean. He had adorned his bonnet the autumn before with a sprig of the large purple heather, but every bell had fallen from it, leaving only the naked spray, pitiful analogue of the whole withered exterior of which it formed part. His sporran, however, hid the stained front of his kilt, and his Sunday coat had been new within ten years--the gift of certain ladies of Portlossie, some of whom, to whose lowland eyes the kilt was obnoxious, would have added a pair of trowsers, had not Miss Horn stoutly opposed them, confident that Duncan would regard the present as an insult. And she was right; for rather than wear anything instead of the philibeg, Duncan would have plaited himself one with his own blind fingers out of an old sack. Indeed, although the _trews_ were never at any time unknown in the Highlands, Duncan had always regarded them as effeminate, and especially in his lowland exile would have looked upon the wearing of them as a disgrace to his highland birth. “Tat wass a fery coot sairmon to-day, Malcolm,” he said, as they stepped from the churchyard upon the road. Malcolm, knowing well whither conversation on the subject would lead, made no reply. His grandfather, finding him silent, iterated his remark, with the addition-- “Put how could it pe a paad one, you’ll pe thinking, my poy, when he’d pe hafing such a text to keep him straight.” Malcolm continued silent, for a good many people were within hearing, whom he did not wish to see amused with the remarks certain to follow any he could make. But Mr Graham, who happened to be walking near the old man on the other side, out of pure politeness made a partial response. “Yes, Mr MacPhail,” he said, “it was a grand text.” “Yes, and it wass’ll pe a cran’ sairmon,” persisted Duncan. “‘Fenchence is mine--I will repay.’ Ta Lord loves fenchence. It’s a fine thing, fenchence. To make ta wicked know tat tey’ll pe peing put men! Yes; ta Lord will slay ta wicked. Ta Lord will gif ta honest man fenchence upon his enemies. It wass a cran’ sairmon!” “Don’t you think vengeance a very dreadful thing, Mr MacPhail?” said the schoolmaster. “Yes, for ta von tat’ll pe in ta wrong--I wish ta fenchence was mine!” he added with a loud sigh. “But the Lord doesn’t think any of _us_ fit to be trusted with it, and so keeps it to himself, you see.” “Yes, and tat’ll pe pecause it’ll pe too coot to be gifing to another. And some people would be waik of heart, and be letting teir enemies co.” “I suspect it’s for the opposite reason, Mr MacPhail:--we would go much too far, making no allowances, causing the innocent to suffer along with the guilty, neither giving fair play nor avoiding cruelty,--and indeed----”