The marquis got down, annoyed, but laughing at his own discomfiture.
"I've stopped the screaming, anyhow," he said.
Ere the preacher, the tap of whose eloquence presently began to
yield again, but at first ran very slow, had gathered way enough
to carry his audience with him, a woman rushed up to the mouth of
the cave, the borders of her cap flapping, and her grey hair flying
like an old Maenad's. Brandishing in her hand a spunk with which
she had been making the porridge for supper, she cried in a voice
that reached every ear:
"What's this I hear o' 't! Come oot o' that, Lizzy, ye limmer! Ir
ye gauin' frae ill to waur, i' the deevil's name!"
It was Meg Partan. She sent the congregation right and left from
her, as a ship before the wind sends a wave from each side of her
bows. Men and women gave place to her, and she went surging into
the midst of the assembly.
"Whaur's that lass o' mine?" she cried, looking about her in
aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her.
"She's no verra weel, Mrs Findlay," cried Mrs Catanach, in a loud
whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. "She'll be
better in a meenute. The minister's jist ower pooerfu' the nicht."
Mrs Findlay made a long reach, caught Lizzy by the arm, and dragged
her forth, looking scared and white, with a red spot upon one cheek.
No one dared to bar Meg's exit with her prize; and the marquis,
with Lady Florimel and Malcolm, took advantage of the opening she
made, and following in her wake soon reached the open air.
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