The procurator-fiscal was in despair. “I’ll take some measures with this d—d Bess of Bedlam,” said he, “that shall make her find her tongue.”
“Wi’ your favour, sir,” said Ratcliffe, “better let her mind settle a little—Ye have aye made out something.”
“True,” said the official person; “a brown short-gown, mutch, red rokelay—that agrees with your Madge Wildfire, Mr. Butler?” Butler agreed that it did so. “Yes, there was a sufficient motive for taking this crazy creature’s dress and name, while he was about such a job.”
“And I am free to say now,” said Ratcliffe
“When you see it has come out without you,” interrupted Sharpitlaw.
“Just sae, sir,” reiterated Ratcliffe. “I am free to say now, since it’s come out otherwise, that these were the clothes I saw Robertson wearing last night in the jail, when he was at the head of the rioters.”
“That’s direct evidence,” said Sharpitlaw; “stick to that, Rat—I will report favourably of you to the provost, for I have business for you to-night. It wears late; I must home and get a snack, and I’ll be back in the evening. Keep Madge with you, Ratcliffe, and try to get her into a good tune again.” So saying he left the prison.
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
And some they whistled—and some they sang,
And some did loudly say,
Whenever Lord Barnard’s horn it blew,
“Away, Musgrave away!”
Ballad of Little Musgrave.