"
"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.
"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.
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