Butler. Brandy cannot save her. She maun
gang down the Bow wi' the lad in the pioted coat* at her heels.--
* The executioner, in livery of black or dark grey and silver, likened by
low wit to a magpie.
I am sorry for the lassie, but the law, sir, maun hae its course--
Vivat Rex,
Currat Lex,
as the poet has it, in whilk of Horace's odes I know not."
Here Butler groaned, in utter impatience of the brutality and ignorance
which Bartoline had contrived to amalgamate into one sentence. But
Saddletree, like other prosers, was blessed with a happy obtuseness of
perception concerning the unfavourable impression which he sometimes made
on his auditors. He proceeded to deal forth his scraps of legal knowledge
without mercy, and concluded by asking Butler, with great
self-complacency, "Was it na a pity my father didna send me to Utrecht?
Havena I missed the chance to turn out as _clarissimus_ an _ictus,_ as
auld Grunwiggin himself?--Whatfor dinna ye speak, Mr. Butler? Wad I no
hae been a _clarissimus ictus?_--Eh, man?"
"I really do not understand you, Mr. Saddletree," said Butler, thus
pushed hard for an answer.
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