LITMIR.BIZ

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prithee tell some of the fellows to bring my harp from the baggage.’

      ‘His own harp is with ours,’ said Sir James; ‘he will make a better figure therewith.’

      At his sign, the attendant, Nigel, the only person besides Lord Marmion of Tanfield who had been present at the meal, besides the two Stewarts and the English brothers, rose and disappeared between the trees, beyond which a hum of voices, an occasional laugh, and the stamping of horses and jingling of bridles, betokened that a good many followers were in waiting.  Malcolm’s harp was quickly brought, having been slung in its case to the saddle of Halbert’s horse; and as he had used it to beguile the last evening’s halt, it did not need much tuning.  Surprised as his princely notions were at being commanded rather than requested to sing, the sweet encouraging smile and tone of kind authority banished all hesitation in complying, and he gave the ballad of the Clerks’ Twa Sons of Owsenford with much grace and sweetness, while the weakness of his voice was compensated by the manlier strains with which Sir James occasionally chimed in.  Then, as Harry gave full meed of appreciative praise and thanks, Sir James said, ‘Lend me thine harp, Malcolm; I have learnt thy song now; and thou, Harry, must hear and own how far our Scottish minstrelsy exceeds thy boasted Chevy Chase.’

      And forth rang in all the mellow beauty of his voice that most glorious of ballads, the Battle of Otterburn, as much more grand than it had been when he heard it from the glee-man or from Malcolm, as a magnificent voice, patriotic enthusiasm, and cultivation and refinement, could make it.  He had lost himself and all around in the passion of the victory, the pathos of the death.  But no such bright look of thanks recompensed him.  Harry’s face grew dark, and he growled, ‘Douglas dead?  Ay, he wins more fields so than alive!  I wish you would keep my old Shrewsbury friend, Earl Tyneman, as you call him, at home.’

      ‘’Tis ill keeping the scholars in bounds when the master is away,’ returned Sir James.

      ‘Well, by this time Tom has taught them how to transgress—sent them home with the long scourge from robbing orchards in Anjou.  He writes to me almost with his foot in the stirrup, about to give Douglas and Buchan a lesson.  I shall make short halts and long stages south.  This is too far off for tidings.’

      ‘True,’ said Sir John, with a satirical curl of the lip; ‘above all, when fair ladies brook not to ink their ivory fingers.’

      ‘There spake the envious fiend,’ laughed the elder brother.  ‘John bears not the sight of what he will not or cannot get.’

      ‘I’ll never be chained to a lady’s litter, nor be forced to loiter till her wimple is pinned,’ retorted John.  ‘Nor do I like dames with two husbands besides.’

      ‘One would have cancelled the other, as grammarians tell us,’ said Harry, ‘if thy charms, John, had cancelled thine hook nose!  I would they had, ere her first marriage.  Humfrey will burn his fingers there, and we must hasten back to look after that among other things.—My Lord Marmion,’ he added, starting hastily up, and calling to him as he stood at some distance conversing with the Scottish Nigel, ‘so please you, let us have the horses;’ and as the gentleman hastened to give the summons, he said, ‘We shall make good way now.  We shall come on Watling Street.  Ha, Jamie, when shall we prove ourselves better men than a pack of Pagan Romans, by having a set of roads fit for man or beast, of our own making instead of theirs half decayed?  Look where I will, in England or France, their roads are the same in build—firm as the world itself, straight as arrows.  An army is off one’s mind when once one gets on a Roman way.  I’ll learn the trick, and have them from Edinburgh to Bordeaux ere ten years are out; and then, what with traffic and converse with the world, and ready justice, neither Highland men minor Gascons will have leisure or taste for robbery.’

      ‘Perhaps Gascons and Scots will have a voice in the matter,’ said James, a little stiffly; and the horses being by this time brought, Sir Harry mounted, and keeping his horse near that of young Malcolm, to whom he had evidently taken a fancy, he began to talk to him in so friendly and winning a manner, that he easily drew from the youth the whole history of his acquaintance with Sir James Stewart, of the rescue of his sister, and the promise to conduct him to the captive King of Scots, as the only means of saving him from his rapacious kindred.

      ‘Poor lad!’ said Harry, gravely.

      ‘Do you know King James, Sir?’ asked Malcolm, timidly.

      ‘Know him?’ said Harry, turning round to scan the boy with his merry blue eye.  ‘I know him—yes; that as far as a poor Welsh knight can know his Grace of Scotland.’

      ‘And, Sir, will he be good lord to me?’

      ‘Eh! that’s as you may take him.  I would not be one of yonder Scots under his hands!’

      ‘Has he learned to hate his own countrymen?’ asked Malcolm, in an awe-stricken voice.

      ‘Hate?  I trow he has little to love them for.  He is a good fellow enough, my young lord, when left to himself; but best beware.  Lions in a cage have strange tempers.’

      A courier rode up at the moment, and presented some letters, which Sir Harry at once opened and read, beckoning his brother and Sir James to his side, while Malcolm rode on in their wake, in a state of dismay and bewilderment.  Nigel and Lord Marmion were together at so great an interval that he could not fall back on them, nor learn from them who these brothers were.  And there was something in the ironical suppressed pity with which Harry had spoken of his prospects with the King of Scots, that terrified him all the more, because he knew that Sir James and Nigel would both hold it unworthy of him to have spoken freely of his own sovereign with an Englishman.  Would James be another Walter? and, if so, would Sir James Stewart protect him?  He had acquired much affection for, and strong reliance on, the knight; but there was something unexplained, and his heart sank.

      The smooth line of Watling Street at length opened into the old town of Thirsk, and here bells were ringing, flags flying from the steeple, music sounded, a mayor and his corporation in their robes rode slowly forth, crowds lined the road-side, caps were flung up, and a tremendous shout arose, ‘God save King Harry!’

      Malcolm gazed about more utterly discomfited.  There was ‘Harry,’ upright on his horse, listening with a gracious smile, while the mayor rehearsed a speech about welcome and victories, and the hopeful queen, and, what was still more to the purpose, tendered a huge pair of gauntlets, each filled to the brim, one with gold, and the other with silver pieces.

      ‘Eh!  Thanks, Master Mayor, but these gloves must be cleared, ere there is room for me to use them in battle!’

      And handing the gold glove to his brother, he scattered the contents of the silver one far and wide among the populace, who shouted their blessings louder than ever, and thus he reached the market-place.  There all was set forth as for the lists, a horseman in armour on either side.

      ‘Heigh now, Sirs,’ said Harry, ‘have we not wars enough toward without these mummings of vanity?’

      ‘This is no show, my Lord King,’ returned the mayor, abashed.  ‘This is deadly earnest.  These are two honourable gentlemen of Yorkshire, who are come hither to fight out their quarrel before your Grace.’

      ‘Two honourable foolsheads!’ muttered Harry; then, raising his voice, ‘Come hither, gentlemen, let us hear your quarrel.’

      The two gentlemen were big Yorkshiremen, heavy-browed, and their native shrewdness packed far away behind a bumpkin stolidity and surliness that barely allowed them to show respect to the King.

      ‘So please you, Sir,’ growled the first in his throat, ‘here stands Christopher Kitson of Barrowbridge, ready to avouch himself a true man, and prove in yonder fellow’s teeth that it was not a broken-kneed beast that I sent up for a heriard to my Lord Archbishop when my father died; but that he of Easingwold is a black slanderer and backbiter.’

      ‘And here,’ shouted the other, ‘stands honest William Trenton of Easingwold, ready to thrust his lies down his throat, and prove on his body that the heriard he sent to my Lord Archbishop was a sorry jade.’

      ‘That were best proved by the beast’s body,’

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