‘No; I am of the Church of England,’ said Waverley.

And they’re just neighbour-like,’ replied the Covenanter; ’and nae wonder they gree sae weel.  Wha wad hae thought the goodly structure of the Kirk of Scotland, built up by our fathers in 1642, wad hae been defaced by carnal ends and, the corruptions of the time;—­aye, wha wad hae thought the carved work of the sanctuary would hae been sae soon cut down!’

To this lamentation, which one or two of the assistants chorussed with a deep groan, our hero thought it unnecessary to make any reply.  Whereupon Mr. Gilfillan, resolving that he should be a hearer at least, if not a disputant, proceeded in his Jeremiad.

’And now is it wonderful, when, for lack of exercise anent the call to the service of the altar and the duty of the day, ministers fall into sinful compliances with patronage, and indemnities, and oaths, and bonds, and, other corruptions,—­is it wonderful, I say, that you, sir, and other sic-like unhappy persons, should labour to build up your auld Babel of iniquity, as in the bluidy persecuting saint-killing times?  I trow, gin ya werena blinded wi’ the graces and favours, and services and enjoyments, and employments and inheritances, of this wicked world, I could prove to you, by the Scripture, in what a filthy rag ye put your trust; and that your surplices, and your copes and vestments, are but cast-off-garments of the muckle harlot, that sitteth upon seven hills, and drinketh of the cup of abomination.  But, I trow, ye are deaf as adders upon that side of the head; aye, ye are deceived with her enchantments, and ye traffic with her merchandise, and ye are drunk with the cup of her fornication!’

How much longer this military theologist might have continued his invective, in which he spared nobody but the scattered remnant of hill-folk, as he called them, is absolutely uncertain.  His matter was copious, his voice powerful, and his memory strong; so that there was little chance of his ending his exhortation till the party had reached Stirling, had not his attention been attracted by a pedlar who had joined the march from a cross-road, and who sighed or groaned with great regularity at all fitting pauses of his homily.

‘And what may ya be, friend?’ said the Gifted Gilfillan.

’A puir pedler, that’s bound for Stirling, and craves the protection of your honour’s party in these kittle times.  Ah! your honour has a notable faculty in searching and explaining the secret,—­aye, the secret and obscure and incomprehensible causes of the backslidings of the land; aye, your honour touches the root o’ the matter.’