"Fat's tat? Wha's that, I wad say? And what the deil want ye at this hour o' the e'en? Clean again rules—clean again rules—as they call them!"
The speaker seemed by the yawning drone of the last words again to be composing himself to slumber.
Then the stranger, who had hitherto guided Frank, spoke in a loud whisper, "Dougal man! hae ye forgotten Ha nun Gregarach?"
Instantly there was a bustle inside.
"Deil a bit, deil a bit!" said the voice within, briskly.
Bolts were drawn, whispers passed in Gaelic, and presently Frank and his companion stood both of them in the vestibule of the tolbooth or public prison of Glasgow. It was a small but strong guard-room, from which passages led away to the right and left, and staircases ascended to the cells of the prisoners. Iron fetters fitly adorned the walls. Muskets, pistols, and partizans stood about, ready alike for defence or offence. Still more strange was the jailer who greeted them.
This man was a wild, shock-headed savage with a brush of red hair, but he knelt and almost worshipped Frank's guide. He could not take his eyes off him.
"Oich—oich," grunted Dougal, for that was the turnkey's name, "to see ye here! What would happen to ye if the bailies should come to get witting of it?"
The guide, still wrapped in his cloak, placed his finger on his lip.
"Fear nothing, Dougal," he said, "your hands shall never draw a bolt on me."