“That was unlucky,” said the magistrate, drily. “Pray, being, as you say, under coercion and fear of the lawless multitude, and compelled to accompany them through scenes disagreeable to all men of humanity, and more especially irreconcilable to the profession of a minister, did you not attempt to struggle, resist, or escape from their violence?”
Butler replied, “that their numbers prevented him from attempting resistance, and their vigilance from effecting his escape.”
“That was unlucky,” again repeated the magistrate, in the same dry inacquiescent tone of voice and manner. He proceeded with decency and politeness, but with a stiffness which argued his continued suspicion, to ask many questions concerning the behaviour of the mob, the manners and dress of the ringleaders; and when he conceived that the caution of Butler, if he was deceiving him, must be lulled asleep, the magistrate suddenly and artfully returned to former parts of his declaration, and required a new recapitulation of the circumstances, to the minutest and most trivial point, which attended each part of the melancholy scene. No confusion or contradiction, however, occurred, that could countenance the suspicion which he seemed to have adopted against Butler. At length the train of his interrogatories reached Madge Wildfire, at whose name the magistrate and town-clerk exchanged significant glances. If the fate of the Good Town had depended on her careful magistrate’s knowing the features and dress of this personage, his inquiries could not have been more particular. But Butler could say almost nothing of this person’s features, which were disguised apparently with red paint and soot, like an Indian going to battle, besides the projecting shade of a curch, or coif, which muffled the hair of the supposed female. He declared that he thought he could not know this Madge Wildfire, if placed before him in a different dress, but that he believed he might recognise her voice.
The magistrate requested him again to state by what gate he left the city.
“By the Cowgate Port,” replied Butler.
“Was that the nearest road to Libberton?”
“No,” answered Butler, with embarrassment; “but it was the nearest way to extricate myself from the mob.”
The clerk and magistrate again exchanged glances.
“Is the Cowgate Port a nearer way to Libberton from the Grassmarket than Bristo Port?”
“No,” replied Butler; “but I had to visit a friend.”