Their gait was solemn--if a trifle uncertain--as they slowly daundered
up the road between the trees. It was a still Sabbath evening, when one
can hear the very whispers of the fir branches, the murmur of a burn far
away--when suddenly the stillness was broken by the thud of a horse's
hoofs. Beat--beat--beat--on the turf by the side of the road they came,
and each man of the party cocked his ears and strained his eyes into the
darkness to see who might be the horseman who profaned the Sabbath by
riding in such hot haste. There was an elder there who, had the party
been held at any time but on the Sacrament Sabbath and anywhere but in
the manse dining-room, might have been said to have a trifle exceeded.
So when, cantering on the turf between the two fir woods, they saw a
white horse appear, he looked byordinar grave.
"I mind," said he, "a passage in the Revelations, '_Behold a pale
horse; and his name that sat on him was Death_.'" With that the horse
was upon them, and one and all looked up at the rider's face. Fearsome
and gash was the countenance they looked upon. Hatred and scorn was in
the burning eyes--anger, and the hatred that does not die. And there was
not one man of them but ran like hunted sheep back into the manse, and
there, in the light, faced each other, forfeuchen and well-nigh greeting
like terrified bairns, that did not know the face for that of Patrick
Kerr, the laird of Abbotrule.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150