But in a second all thought of mirth was gone, and a deep solemnity fell upon me.  God had assuredly directed my path, for He had brought the two of us together over the widest spaces of earth.  I had no fear of the issue.  I should master Muckle John as I had mastered him before.  My awe was all for God’s mysterious dealing, not for that poor fool posturing behind his obscene sacrifice.  His voice rose and fell in eldritch screams and hollow moans.  He was mouthing the words of some Bible Prophet.

“A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as women.  A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols.”

Every syllable brought back some memory.  He had the whine and sough in his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer morn.  And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the Sweet-Singer.

“Thus saith the Lord God:  Behold, I will bring a King of kings from the north, with horses and with chariots, and with horsemen and companies and muck people.  He shall slay with the sword thy daughters in the field....”

“Fine words,” I thought; “but Elspeth laid her whip over your shoulders, my man.”

“... With the hoofs of his horses shall he tread down all thy streets.  He shall slay thy people by the sword, and thy strong garrisons shall go down to the ground....  And I will cause the music of thy songs to cease, and the sound of thy harps shall no more be heard."

I had a vision of Elspeth’s birthday party when we sat round the Governor’s table, and I had wondered dismally how long it would be before our pleasant songs would be turned to mourning.

The fires died down, the smoke thinned, and the full moon rising over the crest of the hills poured her light on us.  The torches flickered insolently in that calm radiance.  The voice, too, grew lower and the incantation ceased.  Then it began again in the Indian tongue, and the whole host rose to their feet.  Muckle John, like some old priest of Diana, flung up his arms to the heavens, and seemed to be invoking his strange gods.  Or he may have been blessing his flock—­I know not which.  Then he turned and strode back to his tent, just as he had done on that night in the Cauldstaneslap....

A hand was laid on my arm and Onotawah stood by me.  He motioned me to follow him, and led me past the smoking altar to a row of painted white stones around the great wigwam.  This he did not cross, but pointed to the tent door, I pushed aside the flap and entered.

An Indian lamp—­a wick floating in oil—­stood on a rough table.  But its thin light was unneeded, for the great flood of moonshine, coming through the slits of the skins, made a clear yellow twilight.  By it I marked the figure of Muckle John on his knees.