I remembered Ringan's tale of the Scots redemptioner that had escaped from Norfolk county, and the various strange writings which had descended from the hills.
Was it not the queerest fate that one whom I had met in my boyish scrapes should return after six years and many thousand miles to play once more a major part in my life! The nameless general in the hills was Muckle John Gib, once a mariner of Borrowstoneness, and some time leader of the Sweet-Singers.

I felt the smell of wet heather, and the fishy odours of the Forth; I heard the tang of our country speech, and the swirl of the gusty winds of home.
But in a second all thought of mirth was gone, and a deep solemnity fell upon me.

God had assuredly directed my path, for He had brought the two of us together over the widest spaces of earth.

I had no fear of the issue.

I should master Muckle John as I had mastered him before.
My awe was all for God's mysterious dealing, not for that poor fool posturing behind his obscene sacrifice.