"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."