“God gie your honour gude-e’en, and mony o’ them, bonny Mr. Sharpitlaw!—Gude-e’en to ye, Daddie Ratton—they tauld me ye were hanged, man; or did ye get out o’ John Dalgleish’s hands like half-hangit Maggie Dickson?”
“Whisht, ye daft jaud,” said Ratcliffe, “and hear what’s said to ye.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart, Ratton. Great preferment for poor Madge to be brought up the street wi’ a grand man, wi’ a coat a’ passemented wi’ worset-lace, to speak wi’ provosts, and bailies, and town-clerks, and prokitors, at this time o’ day—and the haill town looking at me too—This is honour on earth for ance!”
“Ay, Madge,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw, in a coaxing tone; “and ye’re dressed out in your braws, I see; these are not your every-days’ claiths ye have on.”
“Deil be in my fingers, then!” said Madge—“Eh, sirs!” (observing Butler come into the apartment), “there’s a minister in the Tolbooth—wha will ca’ it a graceless place now?—I’se warrant he’s in for the gude auld cause—but it’s be nae cause o’ mine,” and off she went into a song—
“Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, Dub a dub, dub a dub, Have at old Beelzebub,— Oliver’s squeaking for fear.”
“Did you ever see that mad woman before?” said Sharpitlaw to Butler.
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” replied Butler.
“I thought as much,” said the procurator-fiscal, looking towards Ratcliffe, who answered his glance with a nod of acquiescence and intelligence.—
“But that is Madge Wildfire, as she calls herself,” said the man of law to Butler.