The Complete Works of J. M. Barrie (With Illustrations). James Matthew Barrie

      THE WARNING.

      Men nearly naked ran past Gavin, seeking to escape from Thrums by the fields he had descended. When he shouted to them they only ran faster. A Tillyloss weaver whom he tried to stop struck him savagely and sped past to the square. In Bank Street, which was full of people at one moment and empty the next, the minister stumbled over old Charles Yuill.

      “Take me and welcome,” Yuill cried, mistaking Gavin for the enemy. He had only one arm through the sleeve of his jacket, and his feet were bare.

      “I am Mr. Dishart. Are the soldiers already in the square, Yuill?”

      “They’ll be there in a minute.”

      The man was so weak that Gavin had to hold him.

      “Be a man, Charles. You have nothing to fear. It is not such as you the soldiers have come for. If need be, I can swear that you had not the strength, even if you had the will, to join in the weavers’ riot.”

      “For Godsake, Mr. Dishart,” Yuill cried, his hands chattering on Gavin’s coat, “dinna swear that. My laddie was in the thick o’ the riot; and if he’s ta’en there’s the poor’s-house gaping for Kitty and me, for I couldna weave half a web a week. If there’s a warrant agin onybody o’ the name of Yuill, swear it’s me; swear I’m a desperate character, swear I’m michty strong for all I look palsied; and if when they take me, my courage breaks down, swear the mair, swear I confessed my guilt to you on the Book.”

      As Yuill spoke the quick rub-a-dub of a drum was heard.

      “The soldiers!” Gavin let go his hold of the old man, who hastened away to give himself up.

      “That’s no the sojers,” said a woman; “it’s the folk gathering in the square. This’ll be a watery Sabbath in Thrums.”

      “Rob Dow,” shouted Gavin, as Dow flung past with a scythe in his hand, “lay down that scythe.”

      “To hell wi’ religion!” Rob retorted, fiercely; “it spoils a’ thing.”

      “Lay down that scythe; I command you.”

      Rob stopped undecidedly, then cast the scythe from him, but its rattle on the stones was more than he could bear.

      “I winna,” he cried, and, picking it up, ran to the square.

      An upper window in Bank Street opened, and Dr. McQueen put out his head. He was smoking as usual.

      “Mr. Dishart,” he said, “you will return home at once if you are a wise man; or, better still, come in here. You can do nothing with these people to-night.”

      “I can stop their fighting.”

      “You will only make black blood between them and you.”

      “Dinna heed him, Mr. Dishart,” cried some women.

      “You had better heed him,” cried a man.

      “I will not desert my people,” Gavin said.

      “Listen, then, to my prescription,” the doctor replied. “Drive that gypsy lassie out of the town before the soldiers reach it. She is firing the men to a red-heat through sheer devilry.”

      “She brocht the news, or we would have been nipped in our beds,” some people cried.

      “Does any one know who she is?” Gavin demanded, but all shook their heads. The Egyptian, as they called her, had never been seen in these parts before.

      “Has any other person seen the soldiers?” he asked. “Perhaps this is a false alarm.”

      “Several have seen them within the last few minutes,” the doctor answered. “They came from Tilliedrum, and were advancing on us from the south, but when they heard that we had got the alarm they stopped at the top of the brae, near T’nowhead’s farm. Man, you would take these things more coolly if you smoked.”

      “Show me this woman,” Gavin said sternly to those who had been listening. Then a stream of people carried him into the square.

      The square has altered little, even in these days of enterprise, when Tillyloss has become Newton Bank, and the Craft Head Croft Terrace, with enamelled labels on them for the guidance of slow people, who forget their address and have to run to the end of the street and look up every time they write a letter. The stones on which the butter-wives sat have disappeared, and with them the clay walls and the outside stairs. Gone, too, is the stair of the town-house, from the top of which the drummer roared the gossip of the week on Sabbaths to country folk, to the scandal of all who knew that the proper thing on that day is to keep your blinds down; but the town-house itself, round and red, still makes exit to the south troublesome. Wherever streets meet the square there is a house in the centre of them, and thus the heart of Thrums is a box, in which the stranger finds himself suddenly, wondering at first how he is to get out, and presently how he got in.

      To Gavin, who never before had seen a score of people in the square at once, here was a sight strange and terrible. Andrew Struthers, an old soldier, stood on the outside stair of the town-house, shouting words of command to some fifty weavers, many of them scantily clad, but all armed with pikes and poles. Most were known to the little minister, but they wore faces that were new to him. Newcomers joined the body every moment. If the drill was clumsy the men were fierce. Hundreds of people gathered around, some screaming, some shaking their fists at the old soldier, many trying to pluck their relatives out of danger. Gavin could not see the Egyptian. Women and old men, fighting for the possession of his ear, implored him to disperse the armed band. He ran up the town-house stair, and in a moment it had become a pulpit.

      “Dinna dare to interfere, Mr. Dishart,” Struthers said savagely.

      “Andrew Struthers,” said Gavin solemnly, “in the name of God I order you to leave me alone. If you don’t,” he added ferociously, “I’ll fling you over the stair.”

      “Dinna heed him, Andrew,” some one shouted, and another cried, “He canna understand our sufferings; he has dinner ilka day.”

      Struthers faltered, however, and Gavin cast his eye over the armed men.

      “Rob Dow,” he said, “William Carmichael, Thomas Whamond, William Munn, Alexander Hobart, Henders Haggart, step forward.”

      These were Auld Lichts, and when they found that the minister would not take his eyes off them, they obeyed, all save Rob Dow.

      “Never mind him, Rob,” said the atheist, Cruickshanks, “it’s better playing cards in hell than singing psalms in heaven.”

      “Joseph Cruickshanks,” responded Gavin grimly, “you will find no cards down there.”

      Then Rob also came to the foot of the stair. There was some angry muttering from the crowd, and young Charles Yuill exclaimed, “Curse you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as weel as on Sabbaths?”

      “Lay down your weapons,” Gavin said to the six men.

      They looked at each other. Hobart slipped his pike behind his back.

      “I hae no weapon,” he said slily.

      “Let me hae my fling this nicht,” Dow entreated, “and I’ll promise to bide sober for a twelvemonth.”

      “Oh, Rob, Rob!” the minister said bitterly, “are you the man I prayed with a few hours ago?”

      The