BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (_Stands weighing dice in his hand_.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. (_Addressing the company_.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing without_.) Ha! what’s that? AINSLIE. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man— THE PSALM WITHOUT:— ‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, Should’st mark iniquity? But yet with Thee forgiveness is, That feared Thou may’st be.’ BRODIE. I think I’ll go. ‘My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.’ If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll—Ay, who _shall_ stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the Deacon . . . !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool! (_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues! SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon. BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (_As he goes out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a settle_, _as about to sleep_.) * * * * * ACT-DROP. ACT II. TABLEAU IV. EVIL AND GOOD _The Stage represents the Deacon’s workshop_; _benches_, _shavings_, _tools_, _boards_, _and so forth_. _Doors_, _C. on the street_, _and L. into the house_. _Without_, _church bells_; _not a chime_, _but a slow broken tocsin_. SCENE I BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave. And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as death and judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her child—my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! ‘My son the Deacon—Deacon of the Wrights!’ My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon? where’s a hat for the Deacon’s headache? (_searching_). This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not to find one’s hat.) SCENE II _To him_, JEAN, _a baby in her shawl_. _C._ JEAN (_who has entered silently during the Deacon’s last words_). It’s me, Wullie. BRODIE (_turning upon her_). What! You here again? [you again!] JEAN. Deacon, I’m unco vexed.