So saying, David went to his bedroom, whence he returned with a very old-looking book, which he laid on the table before Hugh.  He opened it, and saw that it was a volume of Jacob Boehmen, in the original language.  He found out afterwards, upon further inquiry, that it was in fact a copy of the first edition of his first work, The Aurora, printed in 1612.  On the title-page was written a name, either in German or old English character, he was not sure which; but he was able to read it—­Martin Elginbrodde.  David, having given him time to see all this, went on: 

“That buik has been in oor family far langer nor I ken.  I needna say I canna read a word o’t, nor I never heard o’ ane ’at could.  But I canna help tellin’ ye a curious thing, Mr. Sutherlan’, in connexion wi’ the name on that buik:  there’s a gravestane, a verra auld ane—­hoo auld I canna weel mak’ out, though I gaed ends-errand to Aberdeen to see’t—­an’ the name upo’ that gravestane is Martin Elginbrod, but made mention o’ in a strange fashion; an’ I’m no sure a’thegither aboot hoo ye’ll tak’ it, for it soun’s rather fearsome at first hearin’ o’t.  But ye’se hae’t as I read it: 

     “’Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde: 
      Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;
      As I wad do, were I Lord God,
      And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.’”

Certainly Hugh could not help a slight shudder at what seemed to him the irreverence of the epitaph, if indeed it was not deserving of a worse epithet.  But he made no remark; and, after a moment’s pause, David resumed: 

“I was unco ill-pleased wi’t at the first, as ye may suppose, Mr. Sutherlan’; but, after a while, I begude (began) an’ gaed through twa or three bits o’ reasonin’s aboot it, in this way:  By the natur’ o’t, this maun be the man’s ain makin’, this epitaph; for no ither body cud ha’ dune’t; and he had left it in’s will to be pitten upo’ the deid-stane, nae doot:  I’ the contemplation o’ deith, a man wad no be lik’ly to desire the perpetuation o’ a blasphemy upo’ a table o’ stone, to stan’ against him for centuries i’ the face o’ God an’ man:  therefore it cudna ha’ borne the luik to him o’ the presumptuous word o’ a proud man evenin’ himsel’ wi’ the Almichty.  Sae what was’t, then, ‘at made him mak’ it?  It seems to me—­though I confess, Mr. Sutherlan’, I may be led astray by the nateral desire ‘at a man has to think weel o’ his ain forbears—­for ’at he was a forbear o’ my ain, I canna weel doot, the name bein’ by no means a common ane, in Scotland ony way—­I’m sayin’, it seems to me, that it’s jist a darin’ way, maybe a childlike way, o’ judgin’, as Job micht ha’ dune, ‘the Lord by himsel’;’ an’ sayin’, ’at gin he, Martin Elginbrod, wad hae mercy, surely the Lord was not less mercifu’ than he was.  The offspring o’ the Most High was, as it were, aware o’ the same spirit i’ the father o’ him, as muved in himsel’.  He felt ‘at the mercy in himsel’ was ane o’ the best things; an’ he cudna think