LITMIR.BIZ

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ane look at your foot, carle? Take off that huge wooden sandal, an it be your will.’

      ‘Wherefore should I knight?’

      ‘Because I dread ye are either the devil or Master Michael Scott.’

      ‘Whoever I am, I am a friend to you and to yours, and have told you the words of truth. I have but one word more to say: – Act always in concert with the Douglasses, while they act in concert with the king your master – not a day, nor an hour, nor a moment longer. It is thus, and thus alone, that you must rise and the Douglas fall. Remember the words of True Thomas––

      ‘Quhane the wingit hors at his maistere sal wince,

      “Let wyse men cheat the chevysance.”’

      ‘There is something mair about you than other folk, auld man. If ye be my kinsman, Michael Scott the warlock, I crave your pardon, Master; but if you are that dreadfu’ carle – I mean that learned and wonderfu’ man, why you are welcome to my castle. But you are not to turn my auld wife into a hare, Master, an’ hunt her up an’ down the hills wi’ my ain grews; nor my callants into naigs to scamper about on i’ the night-time when they hae ither occupations to mind. There is naething i’ my tower that isna at your command; for, troth, I wad rather brow a’ the Ha’s and the Howard’s afore I beardit you.’

      ‘I set no foot in your halls, knight. This night is a night among many to me; and wo would be to me if any thing canopied my head save the cope of heaven. There are horoscopes to be read this night for a thousand years to come. One cake of your bread and one cup of your wine is all that the old wizard requests of you, and that he must have.’

      The knight turned back and led the seer into the inner-court, and fed him with bread and wine, and every good thing; but well he noted that he asked no holy benediction on them like the palmers and priors that wandered about the country; and, therefore, he had some lurking dread of the old man. He did not thank the knight for his courtesy, but, wiping his snowy beard, he turned abruptly away, and strode out at the gate of the castle. Sir Ringan kept an eye on him privately till he saw him reach the top of Blake Law, a small dark hill immediately above the castle. There he stopped and looked around him, and taking two green sods, he placed the one above the other, and laid himself down on his back, resting his head upon the two sods – his body half raised, and his eyes fixed on heaven. The knight was almost frightened to look at him; but sliding into the cleuch, he ran secretly down to the tower to bring his lady to see this wonderful old warlock. When they came back he was gone, and no trace of him to be seen, nor saw they him any more at that time.

      CHAPTER TWO

      This man’s the devil’s fellow commoner,

      A verie cloake-bag of iniquitie.

      His batteries and his craboun he deschargeth

      Flasche, not by airt or reule. Is it meet

      A Ploydenist should be a cedant arma togae,

      Mounted on a trapt palfrey; with a dishe

      Of velvatte on his heide, to keepe the brothe

      Of his wit warm? The devil, my maisteris,

      There is no dame in Venice shall indure itt.

       Old Play

      WHILST THE KNIGHT and his lady were looking about in amazement for their mysterious guest, the tower-warder sounded the great bugle, a tremendous horn that lay on a shelf in the balcony where he kept watch. ‘One – two – three,’ said the knight, counting the three distinct notes – a signal of which he well knew the language – ‘What can that mean? I am wanted it would appear: another messenger from the Douglas, I warrant.’

      ‘Sir Ringan, keep by that is your own,’ said the lady – ‘I say, mind your own concerns, and let the Douglas mind his.’

      ‘Dame,’ said the chief, ‘I hae gotten some mair insight into that affair than you; an’ we maun talk about it by an’ by. In the meantime let us haste home, and see who is arrived.’

      As they descended from the hill hand in hand, (for none walked arm in arm in those days,) they saw Richard Dodds, a landward laird, coming to meet them. ‘Oh,’ said Sir Ringan, ‘this is my officious cousin, Dickie o’ Dryhope; what business can he be come upon? It will be something that he deems of great importance.’

      ‘I hate that old fawning, flattering sycophant,’ said the lady; ‘and cannot divine what is the cause of your partiality for him.’

      ‘It is his attachment to our house that I admire, and his perfect devotion to my service and interests,’ said the knight.

      ‘Mere sound,’ exclaimed the lady bitterly: ‘Mere waste of superfluous breath! I tell you, Sir Ringan, that, for all your bravery, candour, and kindness, you are a mere novice in the affairs of life, and know less of men and of things than ever knight did.’

      ‘It is a great fault in women,’ said the knight, making his observation general, ‘that they will aye be meddling wi’ things they ken nought about. They think they ken every thing, an’ wad gar ane trow that they can see an inch into a fir deal––. Gude help them! It is just as unfeasible to hear a lady discussing the merits of warriors an’ yeomen, as it wad be to see me sitting nursing a wench-bairn.’

      ‘Foh, what an uncourtly term!’ said the lady; ‘What would King Robert think if he heard you speaking in that uncouth stile?’

      ‘I speak muckle better than him, wi’ his short clippit Highland tongue,’ said the chief: ‘But hush, here comes the redoubted Dickie o’ Dryhope.’

      No sooner were the knight and his lady’s eyes turned so as to meet Dickie’s, than he whipped off his bonnet with a graceful swing, and made a low bow, his thin gray locks waving as he bowed. Dickie was a tall, lean, toothless, old bachelor, whose whole soul and body were devoted to the fair sex and the house of his chief. These two mighty concerns divided his attention, and often mingled with one another; his enthusiasm for the one, by any sudden change of subjects or concatenation of ideas, being frequently transferred to the other. Dickie approached with his bonnet in his hand, bowing every time the knight and lady lifted their eyes. When they met, Sir Ringan shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed him to the castle of Mountcomyn.

      ‘Oh, you are so good and so kind, Sir Ringan, bless you, bless you, bless you, noble sir; how do you thrive, Sir Ringan? bless you, bless you. And my excellent and noble lady Mountcomyn, how is my noble dame?’

      ‘Thank you,’ said the lady coldly.

      Dickie looked as if he would have shaken hands with her, or embraced her, as the custom then was, but she made no proffer of either the one or the other, and he was obliged to keep his distance; but this had no effect in checking his adulations. ‘I am so glad that my excellent lady is well, and the young squires and maidens all brisk and whole I hope?’

      ‘All well, cousin,’ said the chief.

      ‘Eh! all well?’ reiterated Dickie, ‘Oh the dear, delightful, darling souls, O bless them! If they be but as well as I wish them, and as good as I wish – If the squires be but half so brave as their father, and the noble young sweet dames half so beautiful as their lady mother – oh bless them, bless them.’ ‘And half so independent and honest as their cousin,’ said the lady, with a rebuking sneer.

      ‘Very pleasant! very pleasant, indeed!’ simpered Dickie, without daring to take his lips far asunder, lest his toothless gums should be seen.

      ‘Such babyish flummery!’ rejoined the lady with great emphasis. Dickie was somewhat abashed. His eyes, that were kindled with a glow of filial rapture, appeared as with flattened pupils; nevertheless the benignant smile did not altogether desert his features. The knight gave a short look off at one side to his lady. ‘It is a great fault in ladies, cousin,’ said he, ‘that they will always be breaking their jokes on those that they like best, and always pretending to keep at a distance from them. My lady thinks to blind

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