BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator! LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o’ that noo! . . . Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac? I’m . . . I’m sort o’ shaken, William, I’m sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (_Looking_, _piteously at glass_.) _Nunc est bibendum_. (_Drinks_.) Troth, I’m set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye? BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair. LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye’re a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak’ you care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o’ the gallows. _Via trita_, _via tuta_, William Brodie! BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy? LAWSON. Ay . . . weel . . . be’t sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . damned! It’s felony. _ Tutor in rem suam_, ye ken, _tutor in rem suam_. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller? BRODIE. It’s gone—O how the devil should I know? But it’ll never come back. LAWSON. Dear, dear! A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re an extravagant dog, too. _Prodigus et furiosus_! And that puir lass—eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonny bairn. BRODIE (_stopping his ears_). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy LAWSON. William Brodie, mony’s the long day that I’ve believed in you; prood, prood was I to be the Deacon’s uncle; and a sore hearing have I had of it the day. That’s past; that’s past like Flodden Field; it’s an auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But mark ye this—mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no sae guid’s I should be; but there’s no a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie—ay, though he was like my brother—I bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir? Think shame—think shame upon your heart! BRODIE. Rogues all! LAWSON. You’re the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint—Lord help us, and the honour tint!—sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say mair, William; we have a’ our weary sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could bring _half_ the jointure . . . [_potius quam pereas_] . . . for your mither’s son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it’s a sair heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better man mysel’ . . . but there, there, it’s a sair heart that I have gotten. And the Lord kens I’ll help ye if I can. [_Potius quam pereas_.] SCENE V