“Justice,” cried Maule.  “Stand out there, Bob Thornton, and answer for the sins done in the body.”  The story goes on, and it intercalates “fie, fie, on man.”  Thornton stands forth shrieking for the said mercy.

“Was not you, sir, last night, of the time of the past world, in the inn kept by Sandy Morren, in the town called Bonnie Dundee—­bonnie in all save its sin, and its magistracy gone a-begging, and its hemp-spinners,[*] and the effect of Sandy Riddoch’s reign—­drinking and swearing?”

  [note *:  There is some prevision here which I cannot explain.]

“I was.”

“Then down with you to the pit which has no bottom whatsomever.”

And Thornton disappears in the hollow not far from where the brick Cradle stands.

“Stand forth, Fletcher Read.”

“Weren’t you, sir, art and part in confining in yonder dungeon the poor unfortunate black lady, whereby she was murdered by that villain of an uncle of yours, Fletcher of Lindertes?”

“I was.”

“Down with you to the pit and the lake of brimstone.”

And down he went into the same valley.

“Stand forth, Dudhope.”

“Were not you, sir, seen, on the 21st of December of the late dynasty of time, in the company of one of these denizens of Rougedom in the Overgate, that disgrace of the last world, for which it has very properly been burnt up like a scroll of Sandy Riddoch’s peculations?”

“I was.”

“Then down to the pit.”

And Dudhope—­even he the representative of Graham of opprobrious memory—­disappeared.

“You’re all (cried Maule) like the Lady of Luss’s kain eggs, every one of which fell through the ring into the tub, and didn’t count.”

And so on with the rest, till there were no more to go down.  Yet the horn sounded again, for Maule was not so drunk that he did not remember there were any more to come; but then, had he not been singing in Sandy Morren’s, “Death begone, here’s none but souls?” The story goes on.  The horn having sounded, there stood forth a figure that did not belong to this crowd of sinners.  It was a woman dressed in dark clothes, with a black bonnet, and an umbrella in her hand.  How the great God can show his power over the little god, man!  The woman was no other than a Mrs. Geddes of Lochee, who, having got a little too much at the Scouring Burn, had, on her way home, slipped into the resting-place of her husband, who had been buried only a week before, and having got drowsy, had fallen asleep on the flat stone which covered him.  In a half dreamy state she had seen all this terrible mummery—­no mummery to her; for she thought it real:  and as every one stood forward by name, she often said to herself, “When will it be Johnnie’s turn, poor man? for he was an awfu’ sinner; I fear the pit’s owre guid for him.”  But Johnnie was not called.  And then she expected her own summons—­fell agony of a moment of