“Man, Quintin,” he cried, “ye should have fetched Telfair and the Presbytery with you. Ye are not fit for the job by yourself. Mind you, this is no hotchin’ wee de’il, sitting cross-legged on the hearth in the gloaming like Andrew Mackie’s in Ringcroft. It takes the black Father of Spirits himself, ripe from hell, to grip the Bull of Earlstoun, and set him to roaring like this in the blank middle of the day.” “But,” said I, “there is One stronger than any devil or devilkin--your father’s and your mother’s God! You are but a great bairn, Sandy. Do ye mind where ye first learned the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm?” At my words the great mountain of a man threw his head back and dropped his sword. “Aye, I mind,” he said, sullenly. “Where was it?” said I. “It was at my mother’s knee in the turret chamber that looks to the woods, if ye want to ken.” “What did your mother when ye had ended the lesson?” “What is that to you, Quintin MacClellan?” he thundered, fiercely. “I tell you, torment me not!” He snarled this out at me suddenly like the roar of a beast in a cage, thrusting forth his head at me and showing his teeth in the midst of his red beard. “What did your mother when ye had learned your psalm?” “She put her hands upon my head.” “And then what did she?” “She prayed.” “Do ye mind the words of that prayer?” “I mind them.” “Then say them.” “I will not!” he shouted loud and fierce, clattering his gun on the floor and leaping to his feet. His sword was in his hand, and he pointed it threateningly at me. “You will not say your mother’s prayer,” I answered; “then I will say it for you.” “No, you shall not, Quintin MacClellan,” he growled. “If it comes to that, I will say it myself. What ken you about my mother’s prayer?” “I have a mother of mine own, and not once nor twice she hath said a prayer for me.” The point of the sword dropped. He stood silent. “Her hands were on your head,” I suggested, “you had finished your prayers. It was in the turret chamber that looks to the north.” “I ken--I ken!” he cried, turning his head this way and that like a beast tied and tormented. But in his eyes there grew a far-away look. The convulsive fingers loosened on the sword-hilt. The blade fell unheeded to the ground and lay beside the empty musket. “O Lord!” he gasped, hardly above his breath, “from all the dangers of this night keep my laddie. From powers of evil guard him with thy good angels. The Lord Christ be his yoke-bearer. Deliver him from sin and from himself. When I am under green kirkyard sward, be Thou to him both father and mother. O God, Father in Heaven, bless the lad!” It was his mother’s prayer. And as the words came softer Alexander Gordon fell on his knees, and moaned aloud in the dim smoky garret.