But the night’s events caused a notable increase in one reputation. The new tenant12 of Crossbasket had shown himself an ill man to counter. He had the interests of the parish at heart and had given wise advice, and he had confounded the pricker with a terrible ease. Clearly a man with power; nor was there reason to think that the power was not given him from on high. A hard man to gainsay13, as even Chasehope had found. His friendliness14 had made him popular, and folk were slipping into neighbourly ways with him. Soon he would have been “Mark” to most, and “Glee’d Mark” behind his back. But from that night formality and decorum invested him; he was “Crossbasket” even to the children, and the humbler doffed17 their bonnets18 when he drew near.
He came to David one evening when the candle was lit in the study.
“What arts were yon,” the minister asked, “that turned the pricker from a man into a jelly?”
Mark had sat himself in a deep armchair covered with black leather, which had been David’s father’s and had come to the manse from the Pleasance after the roup. He had crossed his legs and let his head lie back while he puffed19 his tobacco-pipe. He laughed as he answered:
“A simple divertisement, but good enough for such a caddis-worm. A pinch of Greek powder in the lantern, and for the rest a device I learned among the tinklers in Hungary when some of us gentleman~cavaliers had to take to the hills and forests for a season. But the body was easy game. The sight of my een was enough to melt his wits. . . . Chasehope’s another kind of lad — there’s metal there, though it’s maybe of the Devil’s forging. . . . But for the moment we’ve fairly houghed his shelty.”
“You saw how distraught he was,” Mark continued, “ay, and others beside him, when you offered to carry the wife to the manse. The reason wasna ill to seek. When she was being tortured to confession, Chasehope was beside her and mastered her with his een. . . . She was one of the coven, you tell me. But once in your hands he was feared she would tell things of more moment than the blethers they wrung20 out of her. . . . She didna speak? Ay, I thought she was ower far gone. It was maybe as well that the puir thing died, for after the handling she got there was small bodily comfort left for her.”
“By her death her tormentors are guilty in God’s sight of murder,” said David.
“No doubt. And maybe also in the sight of the Law. That’s why I say we have houghed Chasehope’s mare21 for him. He canna ride off on a pretended zeal22 for witch-hunts, for this one has notably23 miscarried. This pricker business is looked askance at by those that ken24 best, and it’s certain it has no countenance25 frae the Justiciar. They’ve killed the wife with it, and their pricker will not show face again in this countryside. What becomes, think you, of the braw commission of the Privy26 Council that Chasehope had the procuring27 of? The thing is begowked before it is begun. The ministers of Kirk Aller and Bold, and yon knock-kneed haverel, the laird of Killiequhair, will e’en hae to content themselves at home, and Chasehope, in place of hiding his sins behind his zeal for burning witches, is left with his repute a wee thing touched, like a bad egg. There’s folk in the parish beginning to speir questions that never speired them before.”
“I am convinced that the woman Bessie Todd was a human sacrifice, decided28 on by the coven, and maybe accepted of her free-will. I have heard that every now and then they must pay such a teind to Hell. . . . She was weak in the mind, remember.”
“I had the same notion myself. No, I wasna there when the pricker was busy, but them that were tell me that he put the feck of the words intil her mouth. That would consort29 with what I’ve heard of the black business elsewhere. She was doomed30 to die, as surely as if she had stood in the doomster’s cart. . . . But I have found out another thing. Our neighbour Chasehope is a King–Deil.”
“What in Heaven’s name is that?”
“You may well speir. He is the priest of the coven, but he is more, for he is a kind of Deil on his own account. That is why you saw them in the Wood bowing before him and nozzling him like dogs. There’s been King–Deils before this in Scotland. Francie Stuart was one — him that was Earl of Bothwell in the days of James the Saxt, and he had a braw coven down by Dunbar and the Bass31.”
“And the man an elder of the Kirk!” David exclaimed. “The words of Scripture32 are never off his lips, and more than once he has reproved me for sin.”
“That’s the lad. There’s a holy pleasure to be gotten out of hypocrisy33. And yet — and yet! I’ll wager34 that Chasehope has no doubt but that he is a redeemed35 soul, and will get an abundant entrance at the hinder end. That Kirk of yours has so cunningly twisted religion that a man can grow fat in his own sins and yet spend his time denouncing the faults of others, for he is elected into grace, as they call it, and has got some kind of a title to Heaven. I’m a plain body that canna see how God and the Devil can be served at the one time, but there’s many a chiel makes a trade of it. They’ve gotten one creel that holds their treasure in Heaven, and one full of the lusts36 of the flesh, and though they ettle to coup37 the latter before the day of death, they are confident that it winna canker what’s in the other creel. It’s queer doctrine38, and maybe I havena riddled39 it out right, for I’m loth to believe that an honest man could uphold it, though I’ve heard it often propounded40 with an unction that made my flesh creep.”
“You speak not of the Christian doctrine of election, but of its perversion41,” said David solemnly.
“Weel, it’s the perversion that has gotten the upper hand these days. The Kirk has made the yett of grace ower wide for sinful men, and all ither yetts ower narrow. It has banned innocence42 and so made a calling of hypocrisy, for human nature is human nature, and if you tell a man that ilka honest pleasure is a sin in God’s sight, he finds a way to get the pleasure and yet keep the name for godliness. And mind you, the pleasures he enjoys with a doubtful conscience will no long be honest. There will be a drop of black ink in the spring water that makes it drumly, and ere he kens43 he’ll be seeking a stronger brew44. The upshot will be that folk who sit under you in the kirk will dance in the Wood on the auld45 heathen holy-days, and the man whose word gangs furthest with the Presbytery will be hugging lusts to his bosom46 that would make a common foot-sentinel spew. For they’ve all their sure title, as they call it — they’re all elected into grace, so what for should they fash themselves?”
Mark’s face was smiling, but his voice had a note in it which was not humour.
“You laugh,” David cried, “but I’m nearer weeping.”
“I laugh, but it’s to prevent me cursing.” The other’s jaw47 had set and there was a smouldering fire in his eyes. “I tell you the Cities of the Plain were less an offence to Almighty48 God than this demented twist of John Calvin that blasts and rots a man’s heart. For if it makes here and there a saint, it is like a dung-heap to hatch out sinners.”
David was suspended from officiating in the kirk, but he was still a placed minister, and there was no embargo49 upon his utterances50 elsewhere. So while every alternate Sabbath Mr. Fordyce came over from Cauldshaw to occupy the pulpit, and in defiance51 of the Presbytery ate his dinner at the manse, on the others David preached in the kirk-yard. Twenty years later these sermons in the open air were remembered, when Mr. Fordyce, then far advanced in age, was driven from Cauldshaw to hold preachings in the Deer Syke. . . .
There was a novelty in the practice which brought many the first day; and on later Sabbaths the audience increased, for David had never delivered such discourses52 in the Woodilee pulpit. One famous sermon was on the peril53 of trifling54 with salvation55. A soul was not saved by an easy miracle, but must mount hardly and painfully to eternal life; to accept grace lightly was to cast scorn upon the atonement of the Cross. But doctrine figured little, nor were there any of the forecasts of hell and judgment56 which were the common proof of an earnest minister. “He is a guid dowg,” Richie Smail was reported to have said: “he wad wyse folk gently to Christ.” Something of the joy in his own heart revealed itself in a peculiar57 tenderness; often there were wet eyes among his hearers, and the children, squatted58 on the grass or on the flat gravestones, forbore to whisper and fidget, and listened with a grave attention. His elders did not attend; indeed, with the exception of Peter Pennecuik, they forbore even to grace the orthodox ministrations of Mr. Fordyce. Chasehope and his friends walked the five moorland miles to Bold to sup on the strong fare of Mr. Ebenezer till such time — early in the New Year, it was believed — as the Presbytery pronounced final judgment on their minister.
Woodilee had split into two factions59. There was the party of the Session, who held David to be a malignant, or at best a Laodicean, one who gave a doubtful sound of doctrine, a rebel, a despiser of authority, a preacher of a cold morality. To this side belonged many of undoubted piety60, who had been shocked by his defiance and gave ready ear to whispered scandal. Of David’s party were respected professors like Richie Smail and Rab Prentice, several godly women, a decent hind15 or two, and a tail which was neither godly nor respected. Among his supporters were some whom he suspected of dealings with the Wood, and in general he had with him all that was least esteemed61 in the parish. To have Reiverslaw — who was again drinking hard — as his prophet, and Daft Gibbie as his fugleman, did not enhance the credit of his cause. Between the Jews and the Samaritans there were no dealings. Isobel, now a hot partisan62, had quarrelled on this score with her nearest and dearest, and, encountering Jean of Chasehope-foot in the clachan, and being goaded63 by her tongue, fell on her tooth and nail and chased her into Peter Pennecuik’s kailyard. Amos Ritchie, too, had declared his colours, and woe64 be to the man who, in his presence, spoke65 ill of the minister. He was no longer employed by the farmers around the kirkton, so the smithy fire was mostly unlit, while the smith did odd jobs at Reiverslaw and Calidon. Only the new tenant of Crossbasket mixed amicably66 with all. On the road he had the same greeting for Chasehope as for the minister, and he would drink a stoup at Lucky Weir’s with Amos or Mirehope, Reiverslaw or the miller67, in all good-fellowship. But this popularity rested more perhaps on fear than on affection. Dark whisperings began to spread. “What ken we o’ Crossbasket?” said one. “Nae doot he’s frae Teviotside, but whaur was he afore that? He never learned that glower68 on Jed Water.” “He’s a pawky carle,” said another, “and ye canna get far ben wi’ him. There’s mair in his heid than the Word ever learned him. I wadna wonder some fine day to see him gang off in a fuff and a lowe. Ye say he has the speech o’ a guid Christian? Weel-a-weel, a soo may whistle, though it has an ill mouth for it.”
By late November winter should have closed in upon the glen with an iron hand. The first frosts should have stripped the trees, and the first snows lain at the dyke-back. But that year it seemed as if the seasons had gone widdershins. November was bright and calm, and the harvest, delayed by October rains, was soon gathered. Oats and bear, flax and rye — the little crops were housed within a week, and since the snows tarried, it was the middle of December before the cattle were in the byres and yards, and the sheep brought down to the infields. The countryside presented a strange spectacle. Heather lingered in bloom, and the leaves were on the ashes and hazels till long after Hallowmass. When they did fall there were no frosts to crumble69 them, and they lay in great drifts in the woods and by the roadside, and children dived and scrambled70 among them. There were swallows still in the thatch71 in November, and Amos Ritchie, when he went out to the moss72 to intercept73 the travelling skeins of wild geese, found that the curlews and plovers74 had not yet flitted to the seashore and that there were no wildfowl to be seen in all the blue heavens. Morning after morning the sun rose clear as in June, the nights were mild and starlit, herbs which should have been snug75 below the earth sprouted76 prematurely77, the hedgehog and the badger78 had forgotten to go to sleep, and only the short hours of light showed that it was midwinter. Reiverslaw, always a scorner of precedents79, kept his sheep on the hills, where the pasture was as rich as in summer-time.
But the old and the wise frowned and shook their heads. One said it was such a year as ‘71, of which his grandsire had told, when winter did not begin till February, and did not end till June. Another recalled “saxteen fifteen, named the Lown Year, when there was nae frost, and a blight80 o’ worms and cawterpillars and hairy objects fell on the land.” And every wife in the parish, when at Christmas the grass was still rank and high, and hips81 and haws still hung on the bushes, quoted dolefully the saw that “a green Yule makes a fat kirkyard.”
But if there was a presage82 of calamity83 in it for the thoughtful, it was weather of a rare beauty for those who had the heart to enjoy it. There was no sickness in the parish and as yet no hunger, so David’s pastoral duties were light. He was on the uplands most of the day, and now his feet took him away from the Hill of Deer and the north ridge84 of Rood and across the glen to the hills between Calidon and Aller, for there he could meet Katrine with no fear of interfering85 parishioners. The garrison86 had been withdrawn87 from Calidon, since Nicholas was known to be out of the country and Mistress Saintserf was regarded as well affected88, but David did not go there. So long as the short afternoons were crystal under a canopy89 of blue, and the sun set behind Herstane Craig in gold and crimson90, the place for lovers was the hill, for there the world was narrowed to themselves.
But the minister’s conscience smote91 him at last, and on New Year’s morning he presented himself at Calidon door. By arrangement Katrine was not there, and from her aunt he got the tempestuous92 welcome which custom ordained93 as appropriate to the season.
“Sit ye down, sir, and prie our shortcake and October. Yours is the first stranger foot that has crossed this threshold, and it’s surely propitious94 that it should be a minister’s. Our ain Mr. James is lyin’ again, for this lown weather doesna ‘gree wi’ him, though it’s hard to say what ‘grees wi’ him, for the creature’s body is sair failed. . . . It’s mony a day since we cast een on ye here, Mr. David, and siccan days as they’ve been for me and mine.”
She descanted on the troubles of the autumn, her success in saving Calidon from being sequestered95 —“Peter Dobbie, him that’s our doer, is far ben wi’ Wariston, ye maun ken, and worthy96 Mr. Rintoul in the West Kirk said a word in the right lug”— on the difficulty in getting funds to Nicholas Hawkshaw at Utrecht, on the garrisoning97 of Calidon —“They punished our yill, but they fashed us little, for they were sair hadden down by Katrine.” But she said nothing of Mark, though in the end she had been made privy to that business, and she did not hint at the trouble in Woodilee which was the talk of the country. Behind all her garrulity98 lurked99 a certain embarrassment100, and it did not make David’s task the easier.
At last he took his courage in both hands.
“I came here this morn for a purpose,” he said, and with halting voice and a fiery101 face he made his confession. The old woman regarded him with eyes that strove to express amazement102 and failed; it was clear that she had had her suspicions.
But her words when she spoke were those of one who had been startled out of all propriety103.
“Heard ye ever the like?” she cried. “Man, d’ye ken of whom ye speak? Katrine is a leddy born — there’s nae aulder or prouder stock in the land — and ye’re the oy [grandson] o’ the miller o’ the Roodfoot, and ye seek to make her your marrow104 [mate]. We ken that the warld is coupit upside-down these days, but this fair cowes a’. Guid faith, ye’re no blate.”
David held his peace, for he had no answer. He felt in the pith of his bones his immense audacity105.
“How would the lassie set wi’ a manse, think ye?” she continued. “She’s been brocht up amang papists and prelatists, and though she’s had mony a swatch o’ the Gospel frae honest Mr. James, she’s no muckle wiser than a babe. Forbye, she’s a daft quean that wad never mak’ a ‘sponsible minister’s wife. Think ye that the King’s court and dancin’ and glee-singin’ and ridin’ on a horse is a guid preparation for a moorland parish and a fower-room house? How will ane that’s been used to velvet106 and pearlins tak’ wi’ linsey-wolsey and drugget?”
“That is for Katrine to decide,” he said humbly107. “I have heard that true love can glorify108 a cot-house.”
“Havers!” she cried. “There’s a decency109 in a’ things, and ye canna mate a blood-horse wi’ a cadger’s powny. Wedlock110, as I weel ken, is nae business o’ kissin’ and rhymin’, but a sober contrack, and if twa folks are gaun to live cantily thegither, they maun see that mair than their hearts are weel agreed. There maun be a chance — there’s nae certainty in this perishin’ world — o’ a bien doun~settin’, and a sufficiency o’ gear, and a life that will be guid for baith. What say ye to that? A minister’s wife! Guidsakes, the Session wad think her a randy, for she’d lauch at their solemnities, and your brither ministers, wha are maistly cotters’ sons, wad be fleyed by her gentrice, and the folk wad be as feared o’ her as a chuckie o’ a pyet. Ye’re a man o’ sense, Mr. David. Ye canna deny that the thing is past a’ reason.”
“Oh, mistress,” said the unhappy David. “There’s truth in what you say — I cannot gainsay it. But I plead that true hearts may break down every obstacle, and Katrine’s and mine are as true to each other as the dial to the sun. There was a time when you were young yourself, mistress — you mind that then there was no rule for lovers but their love.”
“I mind weel,” she said more gently, “but it’s for auld folk to be eident and save the young frae folly112. . . . I’ll no deny that I would be blithe113 to see Katrine provided for. She’s a fine lassie, but forbye mysel’ she has nae near kin to mind her, now that Nicholas is put to the horn and hidin’ amang the Hollanders. Fine I wad like to see her in safe hands. . . . But what can ye offer, Mr. David? It’s no as if ye were on firm ground yoursel’. They tell me ye’ve cast out wi’ your Session and are bickerin’ wi’ the Presbytery, and ony day may be turned out o’ Woodilee and maybe excommunicat by the Kirk. That’s a braw prospect114 for a wife. Wad ye have Katrine tak’ a creel on her back, like a tinkler quean, her that has in her the bluid o’ the Black Douglas and the auld kings o’ Scots? Ye’ve made a bonny hash o’ things, for ane that’s ettlin’ to be a bridegroom.”
“I am set about with perplexities, and the hands of many are against me. But I have Katrine on my side — and I was in hopes that I might have you, mistress.”
“I’m no against ye,” she said, and there was kindness in her eye. “Never think that. I’ve heard the clash o’ the country and I’ve riddled it out, and by my way o’t ye’ve taken the richt road. I ken nocht about the Wud, but I ken something o’ the tods and foumarts o’ Woodilee, and for the business o’ glee’d Mark Kerr it’s no a Hawkshaw or a Yester or a Saintserf would cast a stone at ye. But it’s solemn truth that ye’ve gotten on the wrang side o’ the Kirk, and the Kirk is your calling, Mr. David. . . . Ye maun ken that I’ve had mony a crack wi’ our Mr. James anent ye, and if it’s the pure Gospel word I’m seekin’ it’s to him I’ll gang and no to Kirk Aller. I’ll tell ye what he said. ‘Mr. David,’ says he, ‘has his plew on the wrang rig. He wad hae made a grand sodger, and if he had been a papist he wad hae made a guid monk115. He has the makings o’ a saint and he has the makings o’ a warrior116, but a manse is no the place for him. For,’ says Mr. James, ‘he canna, like me, withdraw himsel’ into his closet — he is ower hale o’ body and het in spirit for that — and he canna walk doucely as the Kirk ordains117. For if he sees wrang he maun set it richt, though the Kirk tells him to bide118 still, and he’ll no put his conscience in the keeping o’ ony Presbytery. He’s ower staunch a Presbyterian,’ says he, ‘for the Kirk of Scotland as at present guidit, whilk is a kind o’ Papery wi’ fifty Papes instead o’ ane.’”
“Maybe that’s the truth,” said David.
“Ay, it’s the truth, and I’m blithe to hear ye acknowledge it. . . . But we’ll hae the lassie in, for this crack concerns her maist. The cunnin’ limmer, to keep sae mum and begowk her auld auntie!”
When Katrine appeared, her cheeks a little flushed and her eye bright, she was greeted by Mistress Grizel with surprising gentleness.
“What’s this I hear o’ ye, lassie? Ye’ve gotten a joe and never telled me! . . . Na, na, my lamb, dinna be feared that I’ll flyte on ye. It’s a road we maun a’ travel, and nae doubt wedlock is a holy and blessed state and a hantle better than spinsterhood, for a woman maun either be guidit by a husband or be subject to a’ and sindry. But it’s a serious step, and wants carefu’ and prayerfu’ thocht. I’ve had a word wi’ Davie — for I tak’ the liberty to ca’ him Davie as if he were my ain son — and as in duty bound I’ve set forth119 the difficulties. I say naething against ye as a man, Davie. Ye’re wise-like and weel-spoken, and ye’ve gentle ways, if ye hae na gentle bluid. But I say muckle against ye as a minister, and I canna picture Katrine as the leddy o’ a manse. Forbye, there’s the solemn fact that ye’ve made Woodilee ower het a bit to bide in, and what ye’ve done there ye’ll dae in ony ither parochine in the land. . . . Sae hearken to me, sir. Ye’ve mista’en your trade, like mony anither honest lad, but the faut can be mended. Ye’re young eneuch to start in a better.”
Katrine had moved to David’s side and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Aunt Grizel would have you forsake120 the Kirk for the world,” she laughed.
“But I am solemnly vowed121 to God’s service,” he said.
“Nae doot,” said Mistress Grizel. “But a man serves his Maker122 as weel in buckskin as in a Geneva gown — better, if a’ tales be true. This is the counsel of ane that wishes ye weel, you and that denty lass at your elbuck. Mak’ your peace wi’ the Kirk — submit yoursel’ to the Presbytery — ye need gie up nane o’ your views, but submit yoursel’ to the lawfu’ authority. Tell them that ye’ll be guidit in your public doings by them that has been set ower ye. . . . Troth, they’ll no be sweir to mak’ a brig for ye, for they dinna want a scandal in the Kirk. They’ll censure123 ye lichtly for a thochtless callant, and the thing will drap. By that course ye’ll dae nae violence to your conscience — ye’ll just be humblin’ yoursel’ before your elders in the Lord, as we’re commanded.”
“But what of the witchcraft in Woodilee?” he asked.
“Let it gang by the board. It’s no you or ten like you will clean out that dirty nest. Leave it to the Almighty, whose judgments124 are slow and siccar [sure].”
“You would have me sit silent in Woodilee in the midst of that iniquity125?”
“Na, na. I would have ye get out o’ Woodilee as fast as a bird when the thack’s burnin’. We’ve Mr. James’s opinion, whilk ye canna controvert126, that ye were never meant for a minister. I’se warrant it will be made easy for ye — the Presbytery will no object, and Calidon’s the chief heritor, and I’ll get a word spoken to Mr. Rintoul. Ye’ll leave wi’ a guid name, at peace wi’ God and man, and there’s a’ braid Scotland for ye to find a habitation. . . . Peter Dobbie tells me that your father, honest man, made a hantle o’ siller and that ye’ve heired the haill o’t. Gang down the water to the auld Yester lands, and buy a bit estate and set up Katrine in her forebears’ countryside. Ye’re young and yauld and there’s muckle guid work to be done in Scotland by ane that lives in the fear o’ God, be he laird or minister.”
David turned to Katrine, but her face was impassive. From her he would get no guidance. Like her aunt, she awaited his answer.
For a moment he wavered. On one side he saw peace, comfort, a new life with his beloved in a new place, the cutting of a tangle127 which constricted128 his youth; on the other — a thankless fight, where victory was wellnigh impossible, a sordid129 struggle which would darken the sunlight for both and taint111 all the springs of joy. He dropped his head on his breast and suffered for an instant the anguish130 of indecision. Then he spoke, and his eyes were on Katrine.
“I cannot. I would be going back upon my vows131 — I would be false to my faith — I would deserve to be cried out upon as a coward — I would be making terms with the Devil.”
“Thank God!” said the girl, and her arms were round his neck.
The old woman stared at him, coughed dryly, and then very deliberately132 took her seat in the big armchair which had been Nicholas Hawkshaw’s. The two stood before her like prisoners brought to judgment.
“Ye’ll tak’ that puir lassie and expose her to the ill-will o’ the Kirk and the countryside. — Ye’ll set her up as a mark for clash and scandal. — Ye’ll condemn133 her to a wearifu’ battalation that can have but the one end, for those that are against ye are mair than those that are for ye. A man may fecht stoutly134 his lee lane, but he is sair trauchled by a wife.”
“I will reply,” Katrine cried. “I am a Yester. What cognizance does Yester bear, Aunt Grizel?”
“Azure a chevron135 or between three garbs136 of the same, and for badge a lion guardant, wi’ the ditton ‘Thole feud137.’”
“My motto is my answer. Would you have me shame my kin and run from a challenge?”
“But what kind o’ challenge, my lamb? Ye’ll be nae Black Agnes o’ Dunbar — but a minister’s wife, fechtin’ against lees and clypes and fause tongues and ignorance — the cauld law o’ the land and the caulder laws o’ the Kirk. Ye’ll hae to thole and thole wi’ never a back-straik o’ your ain, and keep a smilin’ face and a high heid when your heart is sick. Ye maun bow to them ye scorn and bend the knee to them that your guidsire would have refused for horse-boys, and be servant to the silliest body that summons ye in the name o’ Christ. Have ye made your market for that, my doo? There never was Yester — or Hawkshaw neither — that feared feud, but can ye thole sic dreidfu’ servitude, day in day out, in a wee house in a dreich parochine wi’ nae company but hinds138 and wabsters?”
The girl looked at David, and there was that in her eyes which made him both exultant139 and very humble16, so that he longed at once to sing and to weep. She turned to the Bible which lay on the great table, ran a finger over its pages and read, and the words were those which Ruth spoke to Naomi:
“Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge140: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.”
“So that’s the way o’t,” said the old woman. “Weel, I’ve said my say. Ye’re a pair o’ fules, but there’s maybe waur things than fules in God’s sicht. . . . Davie, lad, get down on your hunkers and I’ll gie ye my blessing141 — the blessing o’ a warldly auld wife that yet has orra glints o’ better things. . . . Man, I kenna where ye got it, but there’s gentle bluid in ye. Your common body would have chosen the saft seat.”
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pricker
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| 刺（戳）的人； 松煤杆； 划虚线器 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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10
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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11
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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12
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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13
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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14
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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15
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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16
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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17
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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19
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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20
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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21
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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22
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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23
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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24
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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25
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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26
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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27
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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28
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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29
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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30
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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31
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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32
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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33
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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34
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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35
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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36
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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37
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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38
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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39
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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40
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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42
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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43
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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44
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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45
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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46
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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47
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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48
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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49
embargo
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| n.禁运（令）；vt.对...实行禁运，禁止（通商） | |
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50
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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51
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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52
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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53
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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54
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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55
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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56
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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57
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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58
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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59
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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60
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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61
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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62
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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63
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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64
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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65
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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66
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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67
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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68
glower
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| v.怒目而视 | |
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69
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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70
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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71
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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72
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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73
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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74
plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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75
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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76
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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77
prematurely
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|
| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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78
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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79
precedents
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|
| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
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80
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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81
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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82
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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83
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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84
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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85
interfering
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|
| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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86
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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87
withdrawn
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|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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88
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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89
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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90
crimson
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|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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91
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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92
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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93
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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94
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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95
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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96
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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97
garrisoning
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的现在分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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98
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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99
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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100
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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101
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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102
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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103
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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104
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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105
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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106
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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107
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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108
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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109
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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110
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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111
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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112
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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113
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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114
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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115
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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116
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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117
ordains
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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118
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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120
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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121
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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122
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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123
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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124
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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125
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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126
controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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127
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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128
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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129
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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130
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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131
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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132
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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133
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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134
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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135
chevron
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| n.V形臂章；V形图案 | |
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136
garbs
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| vt.装扮（garb的第三人称单数形式） | |
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137
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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138
hinds
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| n.（常指动物腿）后面的( hind的名词复数 )；在后的；（通常与can或could连用）唠叨不停；滔滔不绝 | |
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139
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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140
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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141
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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