“Alexander Mowdiewort, ye spak ill o’ the minister an’ session, o’ the kirk an’ the wholesome order o’ this parish.  We have a warrant for your apprehension and appearance which we might, unless moved by penitence and dutiful submission, put in force.  Then are ye aware whaur that wad land you—­i’ the jail in Kirkcudbright toon, my man Saunders.”

But still it was the dread disgrace of the stool of repentance that bulked most largely in the culprit’s imagination.

“Na, na,” interjected Mistress Mowdiewort, “nae siccan things for ony bairns o’ mine.  Nae son o’ mine sall ever set his hurdies on the like o’t.”

“Be silent, woman!” said the minister severely; “them that will to black stool maun to black stool.  Rebukit an’ chastised is the law an’ order, and rebukit and chastised shall your son be as weel as ithers.”

“‘Deed, yer nae sae fond o’ rebukin’ the great an’ the rich.  There’s that young speldron frae the castle; its weel kenned what he is, an’ hoo muckle he’s gotten the weight o’.”

“He is not of our communion, and not subject to our discipline,” began the minister.

“Weel,” said Elspeth, “weel, let him alane.  He’s a Pape, an’ gaun to purgatory at ony gate.  But then there’s bletherin’ Johnnie o’ the Dinnance Mains—­he’s as fu’ as Solway tide ilka Wednesday, an’ no only speaks agin minister an’ session, as maybe my Saunders did (an’ maybe no), but abuses Providence, an the bellman, an’ even blasphemes agin the fast day—­yet I never heard that ye had him cockit up on the black henbauks i’ the kirk.  But then he’s a braw man an’ keeps a gig!”

“The law o’ the kirk is no respecter of persons,” said Mess John.

“No, unless they are heritors,” said Cochrane of the Holm, who had a pew with the name of his holding painted on it.

“Or members o’ session,” said sleeky Carment of the Kirkland, who had twice escaped the stool of repentance on the ground that, as he urged upon the body, “gleds [hawks] shouldna pike gleds een oot.”

“Or parish dominies,” said the session clerk, to give solidarity to his own position.

“Weel, I ken juist this if nae mair:  my son disna sit on ony o’ yer stools o’ repentance,” said Eppie Mowdiewort, demonstrating the truth of her position with her hand clenched at the dominie, who, like all clerks of ecclesiastical assemblies, was exceedingly industrious in taking notes to very small purpose.  “Mair nor that, I’m maybe an unlearned woman, but I’ve been through the Testaments mair nor yince—­the New Testament mair nor twice—­an’ I never saw naethin’ aboot stools o’ repentance in the hoose o’ God.  But my son Saunders was readin’ to me the ither nicht in a fule history buik, an’ there it said that amang the Papists they used to hae fowk that didna do as they did an’ believe as they believed.  Sae wi’ a lang white serk on, an’ a can’le i’ their hands, they set them up for the rabble fowk to clod at them, an’ whiles they tied them to a bit stick an’ set lunt [fire] to them—­an that’s the origin o’ yer stool o’ repentance.  What say ye to that?”