His voice rose and fell in eldritch screams and hollow moans.

He was mouthing the words of some Bible Prophet.
"_A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as women.

A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols_." Every syllable brought back some memory.

He had the whine and sough in his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer morn.

And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the Sweet-Singer.
"_Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will bring a King of kings from the north, with horses and with chariots, and with horsemen and companies and muck people.