"Be silent! you blasphemer," commanded the frail but plucky old minister. "How dare you talk in that way? Do you wish to bring down a judgment on yourself? Good-night! Andrew,--I'll be back to-morrow; and I would strongly recommend you, in the interval, to get down on your knees and pray to your Maker."

This proved almost too much for Andrew.

"Willum!--Willum!--Come back," he cried through the door.

"What is it?" asked the minister, returning.

"There's neither light nor bed here, and I'm an ageing man."

"Darkness is better light and earthen floors are softer bedding than you will have in the place you are hastening to if you do not repent and talk to Margaret."

There was a spell of silence again.

"Willum!--Willum! Are ye there?"

"Yes! Andrew."

"Could I ha'e my pipe and tobacco and a puckle matches? They're on the kitchen mantel-piece."

"Unless it is a drink of water, not a thing shall pa.s.s through this doorway to you till you pledge me that you will speak to Margaret, as you did before you took your devil's vow."

The dour old man, in his erstwhile prison, had the last word:

"Gang awa' wi' ye,--for it'll be a long time, Willum Auld. The snaw will be fallin' blue frae the Heavens."

We went back to the cottage and gave implicit instructions to Margaret and Rita how they were to handle the prisoner. Neither of them was in an easy frame of mind, and I feared considerably for their ability to stand the test and keep away from the log hut. But the minister retained the key, so that nothing short of tearing the place down would let Andrew Clark out.

Next day, late in the afternoon, the minister called in for me and we sailed over to the ranch.

Margaret, though sorely tempted, had kept religiously away from her husband; but, already, she had a variety of foodstuffs cooked and waiting his antic.i.p.ated release.

We went over to the barn and the minister rapped on the door.

"Are you there, Andrew?"

No answer.

"Andrew Clark,--are you there?"

Still no response.

I looked though the boarded window. The old Scot was standing with his back to us in a studied att.i.tude.

Once more the minister spoke, but still he received no answer.

The women folks were waiting anxiously, and keen was their disappointment when they heard that another day would have to pa.s.s ere the head of their house could be released.

"G.o.d forgive me if I am doing wrong," exclaimed William Auld to me, "but I am determined, now that I have put my hand to the plough, I shall not turn back."

Wednesday came, and we called again.

"Andrew," called the minister through the door, "will you relent and talk to Margaret?"

"Give me a drink of water," came a husky voice from behind the door.

A saucer of cold water was pa.s.sed under the door to him and he seized it and drank of it eagerly.

"Will you talk to Margaret, Andrew?"

"No!" snapped the old fellow. And back again he dropped into silence.

Still another day and the performance was repeated. Still Andrew Clark remained adamant; still Margaret Clark begged and prayed on her knees for his release.

"We will give him one more day," said the minister, "and then, if it is G.o.d's will, we will release him and take the consequences of our acts."

On the Friday afternoon, we made what we considered would be our last trip.

Dour, stubborn, old man! It looked as if he were about to beat us after all, for we could not afford to injure his health, no matter what the reason for it. As it was, we had broken the law of the land and we were liable to punishment at the hands of the law.

The Rev. William Auld, suffering far more than the prisoner could have suffered during that trying time, knocked at the solid door once more.

"Andrew! Andrew!" he cried, "for G.o.d's sake, be a man."

He had the key to the door in his hand, ready to open it.

Suddenly, a broken voice came in answer:

"Bring me Marget! Bring me Marget!"

"Do you wish to speak to her, Andrew?"

"Bring me Marget, won't you," came again the wavering voice.

I brought the dear old woman from her kitchen. She was trembling with anxiety and suspense.

William Auld threw the door open.

Andrew Clark was standing in the middle of the floor, with a look on his face that I had never seen there before,--a look of holy tenderness. He held out his arms to the white-haired old lady, who tottered forward to meet him.

"Marget! Marget! My own la.s.s, Marget!" he cried huskily, as tears blinded his sight. He caught her and crushed her to him.

Margaret tried to speak, but her voice caught brokenly.

"Andrew! Andrew!--don't, lad,--oh! don't."

She laid her head on his breast and sobbed in utter content, as he stroked her hair.

"It's been ten year o' h.e.l.l for me, Marget: ten year o' h.e.l.l for us both," he went on, "but G.o.d has spoken to me in the darkness, in the quietness; through hunger and thirst. My la.s.s, my la.s.s;--my own, dear, patient la.s.s."