"The provost being himself a nobleman," squeaked the pottingar, in
some measure released from his terror by the intervention of the
bailie. "God knows, I speak not to the disparagement of an honourable
gentleman, whose forebears have held the office he now holds for
many years--"

"By free choice of the citizens of Perth," said the smith, interrupting
the speaker with the tones of his deep and decisive voice.

"Ay, surely," said the disconcerted orator, "by the voice of the
citizens. How else? I pray you, friend Smith, interrupt me not. I
speak to our worthy and eldest bailie, Craigdallie, according to
my poor mind. I say that, come amongst us how he will, still this
Sir Patrick Charteris is a nobleman, and hawks will not pick hawks'
eyes out. He may well bear us out in a feud with the Highlandmen,
and do the part of our provost and leader against them; but whether
he that himself wears silk will take our part against broidered
cloak and cloth of gold, though he may do so against tartan and
Irish frieze, is something to be questioned. Take a fool's advice.
We have saved our Maiden, of whom I never meant to speak harm, as
truly I knew none. They have lost one man's hand, at least, thanks
to Harry Smith--"

"And to me," added the little important bonnet maker.

"And to Oliver Proudfute, as he tells us," continued the pottingar,
who contested no man's claim to glory provided he was not himself
compelled to tread the perilous paths which lead to it. "I say,
neighbours, since they have left a hand as a pledge they will never