“My grand-daddy telled me that there was some ga’ed awa’ for the bier-trams and the mort-claiths to carry the corpse to the manse to be ready for his coffining! “If they gang on like that there will no be enough left o’ him to hand thegither till they row him in his shroud! Hear till the wild renegades! “And ever the _thresh, thresh_ o’ terrible blows was heard, yells o’ pain an’ mortal fear. “‘Mercy! Mercy! For the Lord’s dear sake, hae mercy!’ “The door burst frae its hinges and fell _blaff_ on the road! “‘They are bringin’ him oot noo. Puir man, but he will be an awesome sicht!’ “There cam’ a pour o’ men folk frae ’tween the lintels, some bareheaded, wi’ the red bluid rinnin’ frae aboot their brows, some wi’ the coats fair torn frae their backs--every man o’ them wild wi’ fear. “‘They hae murdered him! Black Coskery has murdered him,’ cried the folk withoot. ‘And the ither lads are feared o’ the judgment for the bluid o’ the man o’ God.’ “But it wasna that--indeed, far frae that. For on the back o’ the men skailin’, there cam’ oot o’ the cot-hoose wha but Mess Hairry, and he had Black Coskery by the feet trailin’ him heid doon oot o’ the door. He flang him in the ditch like a wat dish-clout. Syne he gied his lang black coat a bit hitch aboot his loins wi’ a cord, like a butcher that has mair calves to kill. Then he makes for the next change-hoose. But they had gotten the warnin’. They never waited to argue, but were oot o’ the window, carrying wi’ them sash and a’--so they say. “And so even thus it was wi’ the lave. The grace o’ God was triumphant in the Kirk Clachan o’ Ba’maghie that day. “They took up a’ that was mortal o’ Black Coskery to the Barnboard on the bier they had gotten ready for the minister. He got better, but he was never the same man again; for whenever he let his voice be heard, or got decently fechtin’ drunk, some callant wad be sure to get ahint a tree and cry, ‘Rin, Coskery, here’s Mess Hairry.’ He couldna bide that, but cowered like a weel-lickit messan tyke. “When they gaed into the first change-hoose, they say that the floor was a sicht to see. A’ thing driven to kindlin’ wood; for Mess Hairry had never waited to gie a word o’ advice, but had keeled ower Black Coskery wi’ ae stroke o’ his oak clickie on the haffets. Then, faith, he took the fechtin’ miller by the feet and swung him aboot his head as if he had been a flail. “Never was there sic fechtin’ seen in the Stewartry. The men fell ower like nine-pins, and were richt glad to crawl to the door. But for a judgment on them it was close steekit, for they had shut it to be sure o’ Mess Hairry. “They were far ower sure o’ him, and they say that if the hinges had no’ given way it micht hae been the waur for some o’ them. “And that was the way that Mess Hairry preached the Gospel in Ba’maghie. Ow, it’s him that had the poo’er--at least, that’s what my granddaddy telled me.