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Updated: May 15, 2025
Somewhat to the speaker's surprise this did not inflame the sensitive sceptic; he had the air of thinking thoroughly, and then he said: "No, I don't think it's my friend MacIan that taught me that. I think I should always have said that I don't like this. These people have rights." "Rights!" repeated the unknown in a tone quite indescribable.
MacIan was sitting somewhat disconsolately on a stump of tree, his large black head half buried in his large brown hands, when Turnbull strode up to him chewing a cigarette. He did not look up, but his comrade and enemy addressed him like one who must free himself of his feelings. "Well, I hope, at any rate," he said, "that you like your precious religion now.
"But then he came," broke out MacIan, "and my soul said to me: 'Give up fighting, and you will become like That. Give up vows and dogmas, and fixed things, and you may grow like That. You may learn, also, that fog of false philosophy. You may grow fond of that mire of crawling, cowardly morals, and you may come to think a blow bad, because it hurts, and not because it humiliates.
"I don't know the exact name for it," replied Turnbull. "Perhaps it is the South Sea Islands, or it may be Magdalen College." There was a long pause, and MacIan also lifted his large limbs off the ground his eyes particularly dreamy. "I know what you mean, Turnbull," he said, "but... I always thought you people agreed with all that."
MacIan had already gone across to Beatrice with an air of fright. Then all these bewildered but partly amicable recognitions were cloven by a cruel voice which always made all human blood turn bitter. The Master was standing in the middle of the room surveying the scene like a great artist looking at a completed picture.
"Men like MacIan and I may suffer unjustly all our lives, but a man like you must have influence." "There is only one man who has any influence in England now," said Vane, and his high voice fell to a sudden and convincing quietude. "Whom do you mean?" asked Turnbull. "I mean that cursed fellow with the long split chin," said the other.
Here, at least, we shall not be chased and spied on by sickly parsons and greasy policemen, because we wish to put our lives on the game. Courage, my friend, we have come to the country of honour." MacIan did not even notice the incongruous phrase "my friend", but nodding again and again, drew his sword and flung the scabbard far behind him in the road.
Turnbull must have been more superstitious than he knew, for he stopped in the act of going forward. MacIan was brazenly superstitious, and he dropped his sword. After all, he had challenged the universe to send an interruption; and this was an interruption, whatever else it was. An instant afterwards the sharp, weak cry was repeated.
He had never practised laughing, and it hurt him very much. At about half past one, under a strong blue sky, Turnbull got up out of the grass and fern in which he had been lying, and his still intermittent laughter ended in a kind of yawn. "I'm hungry," he said shortly. "Are you?" "I have not noticed," answered MacIan. "What are you going to do?"
I think there be none in the whole Clan Quhele, save those which I myself gave to Gilchrist MacIan, whom God assoilzie, who esteemed them a choice propine. Most deeply do I regret his death, for I was coming to him on express business." "You had better turn the nag's head southward with morning light," said the herdsman.
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