"Weren't you, sir, art and part in confining in yonder dungeon the poor unfortunate black lady, whereby she was murdered by that villain of an uncle of yours, Fletcher of Lindertes?"
"I was."
"Down with you to the pit and the lake of brimstone."
And down he went into the same valley.
"Stand forth, Dudhope."
"Were not you, sir, seen, on the 21st of December of the late dynasty of time, in the company of one of these denizens of Rougedom in the Overgate, that disgrace of the last world, for which it has very properly been burnt up like a scroll of Sandy Riddoch's peculations?"
"I was."
"Then down to the pit."
And Dudhope—even he the representative of Graham of opprobrious memory—disappeared.
"You're all (cried Maule) like the Lady of Luss's kain eggs, every one of which fell through the ring into the tub, and didn't count."