"He is not very far off, your honour," said the macer approaching, pushing his bonnet on one side, and scratching his head with an air of vulgar drollery and perplexity. "I'll wager ye a score o' broad pieces, Finland, that I howk out the tod in a moment." "Then do so," said Douglas, haughtily, "but first, you irreverend knave, doff your bonnet in the Lady Bruntisfield's presence." "There is something queer about this braw Flanders wag-at-the-wa'," said the macer, approaching a clock, the case of which formed part of the wainscotting. It was violently shaken, and emitted a hollow groan. The macer opened the narrow pannel, and revealed the poor preacher coiled up within, in great spiritual and bodily tribulation, and half stifled by want of air. His face was almost black, his eyes bloodshot, and his features sharpened by an expression of delirious terror bordering on the ludicrous. "Dolt and fool!" exclaimed Walter, "what fiend tempted ye to rant thus within earshot of us?" "Gadso, I think the varlet's mad," said Douglas, laughing. "Dost think we will eat thee, fellow?" "Mad!--I hope so, for the sake of this noble lady." "And the marrow in his bones, Fenton." "Come awa, my man," said the macer, making him a mock bow; "use your shanks while the ungodly Philistines will let you. Ye'll no walk just sae weel after you have tried on the braw buits my Lord Chancellor keeps for such pious gentlemen as you." "From these sons of blood and Belial, good Lord deliver me!" ejaculated the poor man, turning up his hollow eyes, as he was dragged forth; "ye devouring wolves, I demand your warrant for what ye do?" "Macer--your warrant?" said Douglas. Unfolding the slip of paper, the worthy official now reverentially took off his bonnet, and in a sing-song voice drawled forth-- "I, Michael Maclutchy, macer to the Privy Council of Scotland, by virtue _of_, and conform _to_, the principal letters raised at ye instance of Maister Roderick Mackenzie, Advocat-Depute to Sir David Dalrymple, His Majesty's Advocat, summon, warn, and charge _you_, the said Reverend Mr. Hugh--otherwise Ichabod Bummel--is that richt, friend?" "Yea--I was so named by my parents Hugh, a heathenish name, whilk in a better hour I changit to Ichabod, signifying in the Hebrew tongue--'where is glory?'" "Weel--weel, mind na the Hebrew--charge you to surrender peaceably--and sae forth; it's a' there in black and white: subscribitur _Perth_." "Fie upon ye!" exclaimed Ichabod, "ye abjurers of the Lord, and persecutors of his covenanted kirk." "Away with him!" said Fenton to the soldiers. "Truly ye are properly clad in scarlet, for it is the garb----" "Silence, Sir; you make bad worse." "Of your Babylonian mother." "Peace!" cried Douglas. "I liken ye even unto broken reeds----"