Lintstock grasped his axe tighter. For a moment the wine-posset frothed and foamed in the light; then the fermentation subsided, and with the last gleam of the exhausted fire Lintstock saw the brodder envelop himself once more in his plaid, and, after stretching his limbs upon the warm ingle-seat, go composedly to sleep. The firelight had expired, and then Lintstock could perceive the first faint grey of the morning, brightening coldly and steadily beyond the strong iron gratings of the hall windows; and being well aware that the sentinels would permit none to pass without Sir Roland's order or permission, and thus that the captive prisoner could not escape, Lintstock also addressed himself to sleep for the short two hours that intervened before the usual time of marching. CHAPTER XXVIII. A DRAUGHT OF WATER. "Now light is my song, as I journey along, Now my perilous service is o'er; I think on sweet home, and I carol a song, In remembrance of her I adore."--TANNAHILL. With the first peep of the sun's red disc above the Cairntable, the trumpet sounded in the court of the barmkyn; and starting at once to their arms, the arquebusiers, with the ready resolution of soldiers accustomed to be roused on a moment's warning at all hours and in all seasons, hastened from the hall, and began to fall into their ranks in the yard. Many dead bodies, and that of the stalwart Fleming among them, were lying among the mire, where the fugitive cattle had trod them; a lance-spesade proceeded to call the roll, while the fourrier broached a cask of ale, from which every man took a long horn before marching. Roland Vipont was the first who started at the sound of the trumpet. "Hollo, Lintstock," cried he; "my sword and helmet, and bring hither the wine-pot. Come forth, my light Leslie; the trumpet hath blown." Lintstock brought the posset to his master, who was about to divide it, by pouring a portion into another cup for Leslie; when the wakeful servant whispered into his ear, while lacing on his helmet-- "Hold ye, Sir Roland, and invite our new friend in the border maud to taste of it first." "Methinks muddy ale, or ditch-water, would better suit his knave's throat; but why this request?" "There hath been foul play in the night." "Oho!" said Roland, changing colour and setting down the cup; "do you say so?" "Poisoned?" asked Leslie, in a low, fierce voice. Lintstock winked, and nodded towards Birrel, who, at that moment, for the third or fourth time, was endeavouring stealthily to leave the hall, with the last of the soldiers.