The men were little better.

One had the sallow look of a weaver, another was a hind with a big, foolish face, and there was a slip of a lad who might once have been a student of divinity.

But each had a daftness in the eye and something weak and unwholesome in the visage, so that they were an offence to the fresh, gusty moorland.
All but Muckle John himself.

He came out of his tent and prayed till the hill-sides echoed.

It was a tangle of bedlamite ravings, with long screeds from the Scriptures intermixed like currants in a bag-pudding.
But there was power in the creature, in the strange lift of his voice, in his grim jowl, and in the fire of his sombre eyes.