his own; and borne up also, as perhaps his disposition was not, by a consciousness of the sacredness of their cause. He could break, but he could not bend; he could burn, but he could not melt. 'This is your hour,' a Glasgow friar cried at the stake; 'the powers of darkness sit as judges, and we are unrighteously accused; but the day comes which will show our innocency, and you, to your everlasting confusion, shall see your blindness. Go on, fill up the measure of your iniquity.'[1] Forret, the Yicar of Dolor, was tied among the faggots waiting for the fire. 'Will ye say as we say,' exclaimed a learned abbot to him, 'and keep your mind to yourself and save yourself?' 'I thank your lordship,' he answered; ' you are a friend to my body, but not to my soul. Before I deny a word which I have spoken, you shall see this body of mine blow away with the wind in ashes.' To give Forret a last chance they 'wirried and burnt' another victim before him, that he might profit by the spectacle. The man died quickly. 'Yea, yea,' the vicar only said, 'he was a wylie fellow; he knew there were many hungry folks coming after him, and he went before to cause make ready the supper.'[2]
Happy contrast to the Court, with its intrigues and harlotries, its idle and paltry schemings. We need not wonder at the regeneration of Scotland, when she had such men as these among her children. When the battle was begun and was fought in such a spirit, the issue was certain: the first death was an earnest of
