"Mass! would that I had such a valet as thou, and such noble credit with my wine-merchant. Thou seest, Leslie, what it is to be the king's favourite. Verily, Sir Roland Vipont carries a coronet on the point of his sword. Rogue! thou must pray well to have all these good things." "Nay, nay," said young Leslie, with a burst of reckless laughter, "he pays old Father St. Bernard to do all that for him." "Hast heard the news?" "Nay, what news, Sir John?" "Thou art to boune thee for the borders; for the king swore in my hearing he would find other work for thy sword than killing his most favourite courtiers." "These rascally Hamiltons? But Kincavil is not dead, I hope?" "Far from it," said Leslie; "but the apothegar, from whom I was purchasing some perfumes for little Sybil Douglas, averred to me that he is in a perilous bad way." "When did these knaves of leeches ever aver a man was otherwise?" said Roland, seating himself. "To table, gentlemen, and pray do justice to the industry of my fourrier, and the comforts of my poor den, or hermitage, which you will; but prayer or no prayer, take care the cardinal heareth not of your jesting, Leslie--about prayers, I mean." "The cardinal, that scarlet bugbear of the heretics? Oh, I don't fear the cardinal; he is the steadfast friend and true of my kinsman Norman, the Master of Rothes." "A slice of this veal, Leslie?" "Nay, I thank you; this roasted duck is quite admirable." "'Tis from my estates in the country somewhere." "Rochelle--or Bourdeaux?" "Thank you--what news are abroad?" "Nothing," said Forrester, "but of the queen having fainted twice to-day--poor little woman--to the consternation of Madame de Montreuil, De Brissac, the king, and all his court." "How pure this Bourdeaux is--spiced, too!" said Vipont. "His eminence the cardinal (whom God long preserve!)----" "Save us, friend Roland!" said Leslie; "thou art turning very religious." "Is about to take such measures as shall assuredly exterminate the followers of those heretics, Resby, the Englishman, and the abbot of Fearn. Master Buchanan is now in the oubliette of St. Andrew's, where he will likely pay dearly for his satire _Franciscanus_." "His eminence should confine himself to the pretty little amusements afforded by his country-house at Creich," said Forrester. "Didst thou see that poor devil drowned to-day?" "Who, Leslie?" "He whom the king's advocate discovered burying a cat alive." "Nay, I was hawking with the king on the Figgate-muir--the more fool I! Lintstock, thou knave!" cried Vipont to that functionary--who stood erect as a pike behind his chair--"uncork me half-a-dozen of these flasks. Drain, gentlemen, and replenish again; wine is a specific for care--worth a thousand homilies!" "Lucky dog!" said Forrester; "thou drinkest out of horns hooped with silver, while I, who am lord of Corstorphine and Uchtertyre, must content me with plain beech luggies."