"It's Meg Merrilies, the gipsy, as sure as I am a sinner," said Mr.
Bertram. The Dominie groaned deeply, uncrossed his legs, drew in
the huge splay foot which his former posture had extended, placed
it perpendicularly, and stretched the other limb over it instead,
puffing out between whiles huge volumes of tobacco smoke. "What
needs ye groan, Dominie? I am sure Meg's sangs do nae ill."

"Nor good neither," answered Dominie Sampson, in a voice whose
untuneable harshness corresponded with the awkwardness of his
figure. They were the first words which Mannering had heard him
speak; and as he had been watching with some curiosity, when this
eating, drinking, moving, and smoking automaton would perform the
part of speaking, he was a good deal diverted with the harsh timber
tones which issued from him. But at this moment the door opened,
and Meg Merrilies entered.

Her appearance made Mannering start. She was full six feet high,
wore a man's greatcoat over the rest of her dress, had in her hand
a goodly sloe-thorn cudgel, and in all points of equipment, except
her petticoats, seemed rather masculine than feminine. Her dark
elf-locks shot out like the snakes of the gorgon, between an
old-fashioned bonnet called a bongrace, heightening the singular
effect of her strong and weather-beaten features, which they partly
shadowed, while her eye had a wild roll that indicated something
like real or affected insanity.

"Aweel, Ellangowan," she said, "wad it no hae been a bonnie thing,
an the leddy had been brought-to-bed, and me at the fair o'
Drumshourloch, no kenning, nor dreaming a word about it? Wha was