William Barton, a loose-lived man of notoriously strong passions, was
apprehended for witchcraft. His confession included the not very frequent
Scottish element of a Succubus--a demon under the form of a beautiful
woman who beguiled him, and to whom he made himself over for love and
gold. She baptized him under the name of John Baptist, gave him her mark,
and fifteen pounds Scots in good gold as Tocher-money; and then they
parted. When he had gone but a little way she called him back and gave him
a mark to spend at the Ferry, desiring him to keep the fifteen pounds safe
and unbroken. At this point in his confession the poor wretch was weary,
and asked leave to go to sleep; which, for a wonderful stretch of
humanity, the judges granted. Suddenly he awakened with a loud laugh. The
magistrates asked why he laughed?--and he said that during his sleep the
devil had come to him, very angry at his confession, and bidding him deny
all when he awoke, "for he should be his Warrand." After this he became
"obdured," and would never confess anything again; the devil persuading
him that no man should take his life. And even when they told him that the
stake was set up and the fire built round, he only answered, "he cared not
for all that, for," said he, "I shal not die this day." How should he if
no man was to kill him? Upon this the executioner came into the prison,
but fell stone dead as he crossed the threshold. Hastily the magistrates
offered a reward to the executioner's wife if she would undertake her
husband's office, and strangle the poor mad fellow before he was burnt;
which she agreed to do, for all that she was in great pain and grief,
clapping her hands and crying, "Dool for this parting my dear burd Andrew
Martin!" When the warlock heard that a woman was to put him to death, he
fell into a passion of crying, saying that the devil had deceived him, and
"let no man ever trust his promises again!"
Barton's wife was imprisoned with him. On her side she declared that she
had never known her husband to be a warlock; he on his that he had never
known her to be a witch: but presently the mask fell off, and she
confessed. She said that malice against one of her neighbours had driven
her to give herself over to the devil, that he had baptized her by the
name of Margaratus, and taken her to be very near to him; a great deal too
near for even a virtuous woman's thoughts. When asked if she had found
pleasure in his society, she answered, "Never much." But one night, going
to a witches' dance upon Pentland Hills, he went before them all in the
likeness of a rough tanny dog, playing on a pair of pipes. The spring he
played, said she, was "The silly bit chicken, gar cast it a pickle, and it
will grow mickle;" and coming down the hill they had the best sport of
all: the devil carried the candle and his tail went, "ey wig wag, wig
wag!" Margaratus was burnt with her husband.