But now, under the influence of powerful passion, she assumed a far more imposing character.
"Do you laugh," she said, "you unworthy burghers of Perth, because one of your own citizens has poured his blood into the kennel?
or do you laugh because the deadly lot has lighted on my husband?
How has he deserved this?
Did he not maintain an honest house by his own industry, and keep a creditable board, where the sick had welcome and the poor had relief?
Did he not lend to those who wanted, stand by his neighbours as a friend, keep counsel and do justice like a magistrate ?" "It is true--it is true," answered the assembly; "his blood is our blood as much as if it were Henry Gow's." "You speak truth, neighbours," said Bailie Craigdallie; "and this feud cannot be patched up as the former was: citizen's blood must not flow unavenged down our kennels, as if it were ditch water, or we shall soon see the broad Tay crimsoned with it.

But this blow was never meant for the poor man on whom it has unhappily fallen.

Every one knew what Oliver Proudfute was, how wide he would speak, and how little he would do.

He has Henry Smith's buff coat, target, and head piece.

All the town know them as well as I do: there is no doubt on't.