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Updated: May 3, 2025
"It's a fac'," answered Peter. "The fowk 'll hardly hear a word noo frae ony o' the aulder an' soberer Christians. They haena the gift o' the Speerit, they say. But in place o' steerin' them up to tak hold upo' their Maker, thir new lichts set them up to luik doon upo' ither fowk, propheseein' an' denuncin', as gien the Lord had committit jeedgment into their han's."
"What are ye propheseein' at, Mr Cupples?" said Alec, who did not more than half understand him. "Verra weel. I'm no drunk yet," rejoined Mr Cupples, oracularly. "But that chield Beauchamp's no rainbow that lat me tell ye. He'll do you a mischeef yet, gin ye dinna luik a' the shairper. I ken the breed o' him. He was luikin' at ye throu the window like a hungry deevil. Min' I'm tellin' ye.
"Lachlan, what are ye traivellin' in and oot there for with a face that wud sour milk? What ails ye, man? ye're surely no imaginin' Flora's gaein' to leave ye? "Lord's sake, it's maist provokin' that if a body hes a bit whup o' illness in Drumtochty, their freends tak tae propheseein' deith." Lachlan had crept over to Flora's side, and both were waiting.
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