"'They'll do you nae ill though, and maybe muckle gude."
"Avoid ye! I desire no good that comes by unlawful means."
"Fule-body that thou art," said Meg, stepping up to him with a frown of indignation that made her dark eyes flash like lamps from under her bent brows,—"Fule-body! if I meant ye wrang, couldna I clod [*Hurl.] ye ower that craig [*Steep rock.], and wad man ken how ye cam by your end mair than Frank Kennedy? Hear ye that, ye worricow?" [*Scarecrow.]
"In the name of all that is good," said the Dominie, recoiling, and pointing his long pewter-headed walking-cane like a javelin at the supposed sorceress,—"in the name of all that is good, bide off hands! I will not be handled woman, stand off, upon thine own proper peril!—desist, I say—I am strong—lo, I will resist!"—Here his speech was cut short; for Meg, armed with supernatural strength, (as the Dominie asserted), broke in upon his guard, put by a thrust which he made at her with his cane, and lifted him into the vault, "as easily," said he, "as I could sway a Kitchen's Atlas."
"Sit down there," she said, pushing the half-throttled preacher with some violence against a broken chair,—"sit down there, and gather your wind and your senses, ye black barrow-tram [*Limb.] o' the kirk that ye are—Are ye fou or fasting?"
"Fasting—from all but sin," answered the Dominie, who, recovering his voice, and finding his exorcisms only served to exasperate the intractable sorceress, thought it best to affect complaisance and submission, inwardly conning over, however, the wholesome conjurations which he durst no longer utter aloud. But as the Dominie's brain was by no means equal to carry on two trains of ideas at the same time, a word or two of his mental exercise sometimes escaped, and mingled with his uttered speech in a manner ludicrous enough, especially as the poor man shrunk himself together after every escape of the kind, from terror of the effect it might produce upon the irritable feelings of the witch.
Meg, in the meanwhile, went to a great black cauldron that was boiling on a fire on the floor, and, lifting the lid, an odour was diffused through the vault, which, if the vapours of a witch's cauldron could in aught be trusted, promised better things than the hell-broth which such vessels are usually supposed to contain. It was in fact the savour of a goodly stew, composed of fowls, hares, partridges, and moorgame, boiled, in a large mess with potatoes, onions, and leeks, and from the size of the cauldron, appeared to be prepared for half a dozen people at least. "So ye hae eat naething a' day?" said Meg, heaping a large portion of this mess into a brown dish, and strewing it savourily with salt and pepper. [*We must again have recourse to the contribution to Blackwood's Magazine, April 1817 :—
"To the admirers of good eating, Gipsy cookery seems to have little to recommend it. I can assure you, however, that the cook of a nobleman of high distinction, a person who never reads even a novel without an eye to the enlargement of the culinary science, has added to the Almanach des Gourmands, a certain Potage a la Meg Merrilies de Dernclough, consisting of game and poultry of all kinds, stewed with vegetables into a soup, which rivals in savour and richness the gallant messes of Comacho's wedding; and which the Baron of Bradwardine would certainly have reckoned among the Epulae, lautiores."
[The artist alluded to in this passage in Mons. Florence, cook to Henry and Charles, late Dukes of Buccleuch, and of high distinction in his profession.]
"Nothing," answered the Dominie—"scelestissima!—that is—gudewife."