"Mercy on my puir soul!" exclaimed Duncan Schulebred, but so as not to let any eavesdropping devil hear him--"am I _here_ at last? When I was in the body, how aften did I think and dream o' the bottomless pit?--can it be that I'm now in it? Alas! it's owre true! What hae I, a wicked cratur, now to expect frae thae fiends for a' the sins dune i' the body? But when did I dee? I dinna recollect the circumstance o' my death--dootless apoplexy--ay, ay, I was aye fear't for't. Yet did I no fa' doon the stair o' The Barleycorn? I did--that's it--I had been killed by the fa'. Death's a sma' affair to this. What a fiery furnace for a puir sinner! See hoo the devils run wi' their burning brands, forkin them into thae pits, whar lie craturs in the same condition wi' mysel! But why do they no come to me? Ah! the furnace is for me. I see Satan himsel at the bellows, and it's no for ilka sinner _he_ wad condescend to work. It's for Duncan Schulebred, wha cheated the folk by a short ellwand at the rate o' thirty-six inches o' claith a-week for fifteen years--wha drank, and lee'd, and deceived--wha committed sins redder than scarlet and mair numerous than the mots i' the sun--wha dee'd i' the very act o' cheating Andrew Gavin, by selling him a wab o' damaged linen, and leaving him to pay the bill at The Barleycorn. Alas! am I at last in this awfu place!" As he ended, he heard pronounced in a hollow voice, by some Belphegor behind him: "Now, Duncan, thou wilt get thy fairin', For here they'll roast thee like a herrin'." "Ay, ay!" groaned Duncan. Then a dark figure appeared before him, holding in his hand one of the fiery globes:--"Where," cried he, "is the weaver who cheated the public at the rate of thirty-six inches of cloth per week, and died in the very act of cheating our _special friend_, Andrew Gavin the writer (for every writer is our special friend, and must be protected by us, so long as he writes lying defences and long memorials), by selling him damaged linen, and leaving him to pay his tavern bill? Where is the scarlet rogue, that we may burn out the red of his sins by the red fire of this glowing furnace?" A loud yell uttered by the Mephistophileses and Asmodeuses was the reply to this speech, and went to the very heart of the devoted Duncan Schulebred. The principal, followed by his demons, approached him; he was lying, shaking and groaning, upon his back, and looked at the legion, with their flaming brands, with an expression of countenance transcending anything that could be produced by mere earthly agony, or described by a mere goose quill of the upper world. "What is thy name, sinner?" asked the Prince.