And Donald bowed and preceded his prisoner as if he had been a head- waiter of a fashionable hotel, showing an honored guest to his apartments.
When they were gone the old warden turned to the policeman:
"Will it gae hard wi' them, do ye think, McRae?"
"I think it will send them to penal servitude for twenty years or for life."
Meanwhile Cuddie conducted his prisoner through long lines of close, musty, fetid passages, and up high flights of cold, damp stone stairs, to the very top of the building, where the women's wards were situated.
Here he found a stout old woman, in a linen cap, plaid shawl, and linsey gown, seated at an end window, with her feet upon a foot- stove, and her hands engaged in knitting a stocking.
She was Mrs. Ferguson, the female turnkey.
"Here, mither, I hae brocht you anither prisoner," said Cuddie, coming up with his charge.
The old woman settled her spectacles on her nose, and looked up, taking a deliberate survey of the newcomer, as she said:
"Hech! the quean is unco foine; they be braw claes to come to prison in. Eh, Cuddie, I wad suner hae any ither than ane o' these hizzies brocht in."