Like many other timid witnesses, William Hume, regained his self-possession the moment he was fairly committed to giving evidence by a plain question being put to him.
"I cam here this day," replied William, looking up and around him with increasing confidence, "to tell your Highness God's truth. I canna deny the charge."
"Knowest thou the punishment of deforcing the king's messengers?" rejoined the King.
"No, yer Highness," replied William; "but my fears tell me it's no sma'."
"Hast thou anything to say in palliation of thy crime?"
"Owre muckle, I fear, yer Highness," answered William. "I say owre muckle; for now, when I look back upon the dementit proceedings o' that nicht, I have almost come to the conclusion that that gaberlunzie wha has brought me into a' this trouble, was neither mair nor less than his august Majesty wha"——
"Who, who?" cried the King impatiently; while several of the lords began to laugh, and whisper, "He knows him, he knows him."
"—Than his august Majesty," continued William, "wha haulds his court there—there"—(pointing his finger downwards.) "To be plain, yer Highness, I do on my saul believe he was the Deevil himsel!"
The king laughed a loud laugh, and all the barons burst fair out into a hearty "guffaw;" while some of them muttered, "A compliment—a compliment, in good faith, to the King"—a whisper which, if William Hume had heard, he might have construed into a hint that the gaberlunzie was no other that the king himself; but, luckily for the naiveté of William's testimony, he remained in his ignorance.
"What, man!" exclaimed the King, when he had again arranged his jaws into something like gravity—"Dost thou believe he was the Devil?"