“Ay, that I am,” said Madge, “and that I have been ever since I was something better—Heigh ho”—(and something like melancholy dwelt on her features for a minute)—“But I canna mind when that was—it was lang syne, at ony rate, and I’ll ne’er fash my thumb about it.—
I glance like the wildfire through country and town;
I’m seen on the causeway—I’m seen on the down;
The lightning that flashes so bright and so free,
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.”
“Hand your tongue, ye skirling limmer!” said the officer who had acted as master of the ceremonies to this extraordinary performer, and who was rather scandalised at the freedom of her demeanour before a person of Mr. Sharpitlaw’s importance—“haud your tongue, or I’se gie ye something to skirl for!”
“Let her alone, George,” said Sharpitlaw, “dinna put her out o’ tune; I hae some questions to ask her—But first, Mr. Butler, take another look of her.”
“Do sae, minister—do sae,” cried Madge; “I am as weel worth looking at as ony book in your aught.—And I can say the single carritch, and the double carritch, and justification, and effectual calling, and the assembly of divines at Westminster, that is” (she added in a low tone), “I could say them ance—but it’s lang syne—and ane forgets, ye ken.” And poor Madge heaved another deep sigh.
“Weel, sir,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw to Butler, “what think ye now?”
“As I did before,” said Butler; “that I never saw the poor demented creature in my life before.”
“Then she is not the person whom you said the rioters last night described as Madge Wildfire?”
“Certainly not,” said Butler. “They may be near the same height, for they are both tall, but I see little other resemblance.”
“Their dress, then, is not alike?” said Sharpitlaw.