He lifted the latch, entered, and tapped gently at Thomas's door--too gently, for he received no answer.

With hasty yet hesitating imprudence, he opened the door and peeped in.

Thomas was upon his knees by the fire-side, with his plaid over his head.

Startled by the weaver's entrance, he raised his head, and his rugged leonine face, red with wrath, glared out of the thicket of his plaid upon the intruder.
He did not rise, for that would have been a task requiring time and caution.

But he cried aloud in a hoarse voice, with his two hands leaning on the chair, like the paws of some fierce rampant animal: "Jeames, ye're takin' the pairt o' Sawton upo' ye, drivin' a man frae his prayers!" "Hoot, Thamas! I beg yer pardon," answered the weaver, rather flurried; "I thoucht ye micht hae been asleep." "Ye had no business to think for yersel' in sic a maitter.