"Mercy on me!" ejaculated Duncan Schulebred, "I'm in for't now! An' please your excellent Majesty," replied he, in a voice scarcely audible, from the pure effect of terror, "Duncan Schulebred, wha, when in the upper warld, was by trade a puir weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did yer Honour some service i' my sma' way, and hope ye winna be sae ill to me as ye threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi' their burning torches frae me, and I'll confess to ye a' my crimes. Be mercifu' to a puir sinner!" "What service didst thou ever do to me?" said Satan. "I made ye some freens," replied Duncan Schulebred, still groaning. "I did a' that was i' my power to get the craturs i' the upper warld to drink wi' me till they were sae drunk that ye might hae run awa wi' them as easily as ye carried aff Doctor Faustus or danced awa wi' the exciseman. Oh, think o' that, and save me frae that awfu furnace!" "Confess, sinner," said the Devil, "that thou didst that for the purpose of getting more easily quit of the tavern bills. Thou didst also cheat the lieges by a false measure." "Lord, he kens everything," muttered Duncan--"I confess I did cheat the lieges; but I assure yer Majesty, upon my soul--now no muckle worth--that I never cheated ony o' yer Majesty's freens; for I aye dealt wi' honest folk. Surely that's a reason for some mercy." "Recollect thyself, varlet," said Satan--"didst never cheat a writer?" "How correct he is!" muttered Duncan Schulebred, with a groan. "Ou ay--true, true--a' writers are yer Majesty's freens. I forgot. I did cheat Andrew Gavin, by sellin him a wab o' rotten linen, and leavin him to pay the lawin at The Barleycorn--a name your Majesty, dootless, weel kens." "I think I should," replied Satan, "seeing _that_ is _my_ grain, wherewith I work greater wonders than ever came out of the mustard seed. This place is fed with barleycorns--we bait our hooks with barleycorns--we spread barleycorns under our men-nets--the very man who sang the praises of the grain, under the personification of 'John Barleycorn,' and of its juice, under the soubriquet of 'barley-bree,' took our bait; but a redeeming angel touched him on the fore part of the stomach, and made him throw it, and heaven now boasts that glorious prize." "Miserable as I am, I'm very glad o't," said Duncan, whose fears began to decline. "I wadna like to see our darling poet in sic a place as this." "Impudent varlet!" said the Devil. "In with him into the furnace! Yet, stay. How much money did you cheat our friend Andrew Gavin of?" "I needna try to conceal it," said Duncan to himself. "He kens it as weel as I do. Here it is" (speaking out) "and some mair--ye may hae it a', if ye'll no consign me to that red-hot fiery furnace. Fearfu, fearfu place!" "Count it out," said Satan. Duncan complied with trembling hands and Beelzebub took up the money.