CHAPTER XVIII.
A purple land, where law secures not life.
BYRON.
The morning of Ash Wednesday arose pale and bleak, as usual at this season in Scotland, where the worst and most inclement weather often occurs in the early spring months.

It was a severe day of frost, and the citizens had to sleep away the consequences of the preceding holiday's debauchery.

The sun had therefore risen for an hour above the horizon before there was any general appearance of life among the inhabitants of Perth, so that it was some time after daybreak when a citizen, going early to mass, saw the body of the luckless Oliver Proudfute lying on its face across the kennel in the manner in which he had fallen under the blow; as our readers will easily imagine, of Anthony Bonthron, the "boy of the belt"-- that is the executioner of the pleasure--of John of Ramorny.
This early citizen was Allan Griffin, so termed because he was master of the Griffin Inn; and the alarm which he raised soon brought together first straggling neighbours, and by and by a concourse of citizens.

At first from the circumstance of the well known buff coat and the crimson feather in the head piece, the noise arose that it was the stout smith that lay there slain.

This false rumour continued for some time, for the host of the Griffin, who himself had been a magistrate, would not permit the body to be touched or stirred till Bailie Craigdallie arrived, so that the face was not seen..
"This concerns the Fair City, my friends," he said, "and if it is the stout Smith of the Wynd who lies here, the man lives not in Perth who will not risk land and life to avenge him.