“Good evening to you, Mr. Gib,” I said.

The figure sprang to its feet and strode over to me.

“Who are ye,” it cried, “who speaks a name that is no more spoken on earth?”

“Just a countryman of yours, who has forgathered with you before.  Have you no mind of the Cauldstaneslap and the Canongate Tolbooth?”

He snatched up the lamp and peered into my face, but he was long past recollection.

“I know ye not.  But if ye be indeed one from that idolatrous country of Scotland, the Lord hath sent you to witness the triumph of His servant, Know that I am no longer the man John Gib, but the chosen of the Lord, to whom He hath given a new name, even Jerubbaal, saying let Baal plead against him, because he hath thrown down his altar.”

“That’s too long a word for me to remember, Mr. Gib, so by your leave I’ll call you as you were christened.”

I had forced myself to a slow coolness, and my voice seemed to madden him.

“Ye would outface me,” he cried.  “I see ye are an idolater from the tents of Shem, on whom judgment will be speedy and surprising.  Know ye not what the Lord hath prepared for ye?  Down in your proud cities ye are feasting and dicing and smiling on your paramours, but the writing is on the wall, and in a little ye will be crying like weaned bairns for a refuge against the storm of God.  Your strong men shall be slain, and your virgins shall be led captive, and your little children shall be dashed against a stone.  And in the midst of your ruins I, even I, will raise a temple to the God of Israel, and nations that know me not will run unto me because of the Lord my God.”

I had determined on my part, and played it calmly.

“And what will you do with your Indian braves?” I asked.

“Sharon shall be a fold of flocks, and the valley of Achor a place to lie down in, for my people that have sought me,” he answered.

“A bonny spectacle,” I said.  “Man, if you dare to cross the Border you will be whipped at a cart-tail and clapped into Bedlam as a crazy vagabond.”

“Blasphemer,” he shrieked, and ran at me with the knife he had used on the panther.

It took all my courage to play my game.  I stood motionless, looking at him, and his head fell.  Had I moved he would have struck, but to his mad eyes my calmness was terrifying.

“It sticks in my mind,” I said, “that there is a commandment, Do no murder.  You call yourself a follower of the Lord.  Let me tell you that you are no more than a bloody-minded savage, a thousandfold more guilty than those poor creatures you are leading astray.  You serve Baal, not God, John Gib, and the devil in hell is banking his fires and counting on your company.”

He gibbered at me like a bedlamite, but I knew what I was doing.  I raised my voice, and spoke loud and clear, while my eyes held his in that yellow dusk.

“Priest of Baal,” I cried, “lying prophet!  Go down on your knees and pray for mercy.  By the living God, the flames of hell are waiting for you.  The lightnings tremble in the clouds to scorch you up and send your black soul to its own place.”