Then the women sang a psalm, while Alexander-Jonita, leaping on a horse, rode a musket-shot behind the retiring force, till she had seen them safely across the river at the fords of Glenlochar, and so finally out of the parish bounds. CHAPTER XXIX. THE ELDERS OF THE HILL FOLK. (_The Narrative taken up again by Quintin MacClellan._) It was long before I could see clearly the way I should go, after that dismal day and night of which I have told the tale. It seemed as if there was no goodness on the earth, no use in my work, no right or excellency in the battle I had fought and the sacrifice I had made. Ought I not even now to give way? Surely God had not meant a man so poor in spirit, so easily cast down to hold aloft the standard of his ancient kirk. But nevertheless, here before me and around me, a present duty, were my parish and my poor folk, so brave and loyal and steadfast. Could I forsake them? Daily I heard tidings of their struggling with the arm of flesh, though I now judge that Hob, in some fear of my disapproval, would not venture to tell me all. Yet I misdoubted that I had brought my folk into a trouble which might in the event prove a grievous enough one for them. But a kind Providence watched over them and me. For even when it came to the stormiest, the wind ceased and there was a blissful breathing time of quietness and peace. Also there was that happened about this time which brought us at least for a time assurance and security within our borders. It was, as I remember it, a gurly night in late September, the wind coming in gusts and swirling flaws from every quarter, very evidently blowing up for a storm. Hob had come in silently and set him down by the fire. He was peeling a willow wand for his basket-weaving and looking into the embers. I could hear Martha Little, our sharp-tongued servant lass, clattering among her pots and pans in the kitchen. As for me I was among my books, deep in Greek, which to my shame I had been somewhat neglecting of late. Suddenly there came a loud knocking at the outer door. I looked at my plaid hung up to dry, and bethought me who might be ill and in want of my ministrations upon such a threatening night. I could hear Martha go to the door, and the low murmur of voices without. Then the door of the chamber opened and I saw the faces and forms of half-a-dozen men in the passage. “It has come at last,” thought I, for I expected that it might be the Sheriff and his men come to expel me from the kindly shelter of the manse. And though I should have submitted, I knew well that there would be bloodshed on the morrow among my poor folk. But it turned out far otherwise.