was a long pause, and MacIan also lifted his large limbs off the
ground--his eyes particularly dreamy.

"I know what you mean, Turnbull," he said, "but... I always thought you
people agreed with all that."

"With all that about doing as one likes, and the individual, and Nature
loving the strongest, and all the things which that cockroach talked
about."

Turnbull's big blue-grey eyes stood open with a grave astonishment.

"Do you really mean to say, MacIan," he said, "that you fancied that we,
the Free-thinkers, that Bradlaugh, or Holyoake, or Ingersoll, believe
all that dirty, immoral mysticism about Nature? Damn Nature!"

"I supposed you did," said MacIan calmly. "It seems to me your most
conclusive position."

"And you mean to tell me," rejoined the other, "that you broke my
window, and challenged me to mortal combat, and tied a tradesman up with
ropes, and chased an Oxford Fellow across five meadows--all under the
impression that I am such an illiterate idiot as to believe in Nature!"

"I supposed you did," repeated MacIan with his usual mildness; "but I
admit that I know little of the details of your belief--or disbelief."

Turnbull swung round quite suddenly, and set off towards the village.

"Come along," he cried. "Come down to the village. Come down to the
nearest decent inhabitable pub. This is a case for beer."

"I do not quite follow you," said the Highlander.

"Yes, you do," answered Turnbull. "You follow me slap into the
inn-parlour. I repeat, this is a case for beer. We must have the whole
of this matter out thoroughly before we go a step farther. Do you know
that an idea has just struck me of great simplicity and of some
cogency. Do not by any means let us drop our intentions of settling our
differences with two steel swords. But do you not think that with two
pewter pots we might do what we really have never thought of doing
yet--discover what our difference is?"

"It never occurred to me before," answered MacIan with tranquillity. "It
is a good suggestion."

And they set out at an easy swing down the steep road to the village of
Grassley-in-the-Hole.

Grassley-in-the-Hole was a rude parallelogram of buildings, with two
thoroughfares which might have been called two high streets if it had
been possible to call them streets. One of these ways was higher on the
slope than the other, the whole parallelogram lying aslant, so to speak,
on the side of the hill. The upper of these two roads was