All his recent adventures in Douglasdale--the storming of Fleming the farmer's barmkyn--the poisoning of Nicholas Birrel--the horrors of his return--the trial--his defiance of the court--his challenge, and its rejection, had all passed away from his memory, which retained but one episode, one vision--Jane, as she appeared before that cruel and determined tribunal--so pale, so ghastly, so helpless, and so beautiful. The recollection was a frightful one. "And the king, he who loved me so well," thought he; "has he too forgotten me? James Stuart--James Stuart! the Douglases have said truly, thou art ungrateful; and more truly and more wisely hath the good old countess said unto me a hundred times, 'Put not your trust in princes.' Who now thinks of the ancient wealth and valour of the Viponts?--who of their courage and patriotism? The honour of their name lies buried in the church of St. Colme, and beneath the moss that clusters on Aberdour--my patrimony gifted many a year ago to the grasping house of Morton. How unhappy am I! My whole life has been a struggle between poverty and pride, earning by wounds, and blood, and toil, hardly and severely, at sword's point, every penny that clinked in my pouch; for I have been a soldier of fortune, or misfortune rather, from my boyhood to the present hour. But have I not had some bright moments too? Ah, yes--yes! those I have passed with Jane--with my dear Jeanie; but they have been like the meteors that have shot over a dark winter sky; they are passed now, and a double gloom remains behind." His apartment had two windows, one which opened to the west, and another to the north; and through both shone the last flush of the red sunset. Now two voices beneath the west window, by attracting his attention, interrupted his sad thoughts, and he listened. The speakers were in familiar conversation; but there was something so hateful in their tones, that his heart trembled with rage as he recognised them; and, impelled alike by hatred and a fearful curiosity, he drew near to listen. In an angle of the ramparts, where the curtain wall joined a corner of the tower, the two gossips were seated on the stock of a large brass culverin: they were Nichol Birrel and Sanders Screw. The yellow, livid visage, matted hair, and enormously thick beard of the former, and the shrivelled legs, nutcracker visage of the latter, were distinctly visible in the clear summer twilight; and there was a broad grin on the face of each as they conversed on a subject which, as it was pecuniary, interested them both in a high degree. "Twenty merks and fifteen mak five-and-thirty merks," said Birrel, counting on his huge misshapen fingers. "Ay," responded Screw, with another wide grin, as he held a piece of paper up to the light, which came from the west. "The deil!" said Birrel, "ye dinna mean to pretend that ye can _read_, friend Sanders?" "No, but I ken ilka item off by heart." "Let me hear, then."