“Weel, ye see, first there was Geordie Skin–him–alive the flesher, him that took away the crocks and the paulies, and my brockit–lamb, and gae me a penny for setting him through atween the lochs. Then there was Hector Kennedy the tinkler, him that the bogles brought and laid down at the door i’ the night–time—he suppit twa bickerfu’s o’ paritch, an’ cleekit out a hantle o’ geds an’ perches wi’ his toum. Then there was Ned Huddersfield the woo–man, wi’ the leather bags and the skeenzie thread—him that kissed our bire–woman i’ the barn in spite o’ her teeth,—he had red cheeks and grit thees, and wasna unlike a glutton; he misca’d my father’s woo, an’ said aye, ‘Nay, it’s nane clean, howsomever,—it’s useless, that’s its warst fault.’ Then there was wee Willie the nout herd, him that had the gude knife an’ the duddy breeks; but the Brownie’s put him daft, an’ his mither had to come an’ tak him away upon a cuddy.” In this manner went he on particularizing every one he remembered, till fairly cut short with a curse. John continued perfectly stupid, and when examined, answered only _Yes_, or _No_, as their way of asking the question dictated. “Are there not great numbers of people who frequent your father’s house during the night?” “Yes.” “Do you see and hear them, after you go to bed?” “Yes.” “What are they generally employed in when you hear them? Do they read, and pray, and sing psalms?” “Yes.” “Do your father and mother always join them?” “Yes.” Here William could restrain himself no longer. “Gude faith, Jock, man,” said he, “ye’re just telling a hirsel o’ eindown lees. It canna be lees that the man wants, for that maks him nae the wiser; an’ for you to say that my father rises to pray i’ the night–time, beats a’, when ye ken my mither has baith to fleitch an’ fight or she can get him eggit on till’t i’ the Sabbath e’enings. He’s ower glad to get it foughten decently by, to rise an’ fa’ till’t again. O fye, Jock! I wad stand by the truth; an’, at ony rate, no just gaung to hell open mouth.” When the volley of musketry went off, all the prisoners started and stared on one another; even the hundred veterans that guarded them appeared by their looks to be wholly at a loss. Macpherson alone ventured any remark on it. “Pe Cot’s life, fat she pe pluff pluffing at now? May the teal more pe her soul’s salvation, if she do not believe te man’s pe gone out of all reason.” The women screamed; and Maron, whose tongue was a mere pendulum to the workings of the heart within, went on sighing and praying; asking questions, and answering them alternately; and at every pause, looked earnestly to her husband, who leaned against the corner of the room, ashamed that his bound hands should be seen.