rder men in the
town who wear the bloody heart on their shoulder. But all this is no
rede. What shall we do?"

"Short rede, good rede," said the smith. "Let us to our provost, and
demand his countenance and assistance."

A murmur of applause went through the party, and Oliver Proudfute
exclaimed, "That is what I have been saying for this half hour, and not
one of ye would listen to me. 'Let us go to our provost,' said I. 'He is
a gentleman himself, and ought to come between the burgh and the nobles
in all matters."

"Hush, neighbours--hush; be wary what you say or do," said a thin meagre
figure of a man, whose diminutive person seemed still more reduced in
size, and more assimilated to a shadow, by his efforts to assume an
extreme degree of humility, and make himself, to suit his argument, look
meaner yet, and yet more insignificant, than nature had made him.

"Pardon me," said he; "I am but a poor pottingar. Nevertheless, I have
been bred in Paris, and learned my humanities and my cursus medendi as
well as some that call themselves learned leeches. Methinks I can tent
this wound, and treat it with emollients. Here is our friend Simon
Glover, who is, as you all know, a man of worship. Think you he would
not be the most willing of us all to pursue harsh courses here, since
his family honour is so nearly concerned? And since he blenches away
from the charge against these same revellers, consider if he may not
have some good reason more than he cares to utter for letting the matter
sleep. It is not for me to put my finger on the sore; but, alack! we all
know that young maidens are what I call fugitive essences. Suppose now,
an honest maiden--I mean in all innocence--leaves her window unlatched
on St. Valentine's morn, that some gallant cavalier may--in all honesty,
I mean--become her Valentine for the season, and suppose the gallant
be discovered, may she not scream out as if the visit were unexpected,
and--and--bray all this in a mortar, and then consider, will it be a
matter to place the town in feud for?"

The pottingar delivered his opinion in a most insinuating manner; but
he seemed to shrink into something less than his natural tenuity when he
saw the blood rise in the old cheek of Simon Glover, and inflame to the
temples the complexion of the redoubted smith.

The last, stepping forward, and turning a stern look on the alarmed
pottingar, broke out as follows: "Thou walking skeleton! thou asthmatic
gallipot! t