“Why, what would you do, my lords, with the poor young fellow?” said a noble Marquis present. “The Lord Keeper has got all his estates; he has not a cross to bless himself with.” On which the ancient Lord Turntippet replied, “If he hasna gear to fine, He ha shins to pine. “And that was our way before the Revolution: _Lucitur cum persona, qui luere non potest cum crumena_. Hegh, my lords, that’s gude law Latin.” “I can see no motive,” replied the Marquis, “that any noble lord can have for urging this matter farther; let the Lord Keeper have the power to deal in it as he pleases.” “Agree, agree—remit to the Lord Keeper, with any other person for fashion’s sake—Lord Hirplehooly, who is bed-ridden—one to be a quorum. Make your entry in the minutes, Mr. Clerk. And now, my lords, there is that young scattergood the Laird of Bucklaw’s fine to be disposed upon. I suppose it goes to my Lord Treasurer?” “Shame be in my meal-poke, then,” exclaimed the Lord Turntippet, “and your hand aye in the nook of it! I had set that down for a bye-bit between meals for mysell.” “To use one of your favourite saws, my lord,” replied the Marquis, “you are like the miller’s dog, that licks his lips before the bag is untied: the man is not fined yet.” “But that costs but twa skarts of a pen,” said Lord Turntippet; “and surely there is nae noble lord that will presume to say that I, wha hae complied wi’ a’ compliances, taen all manner of tests, abujred all that was to be abjured, and sworn a’ that was to be sworn, for these thirty years bye-past, sticking fast by my duty to the state through good report and bad report, shouldna hae something now and then to synd my mouth wi’ after sic drouthy wark? Eh?” “It would be very unreasonable indeed, my lord,” replied the Marquis, “had we either thought that your lordship’s drought was quenchable, or observed anything stick in your throat that required washing down.” And so we close the scene on the privy council of that period. CHAPTER VI. For this are all these warriors come, To hear an idle tale; And o’er our death-accustom’d arms Shall silly tears prevail? HENRY MACKENZIE. On the evening of the day when the Lord Keeper and his daughter were saved from such imminent peril, two strangers were seated in the most private apartment of a small obscure inn, or rather alehouse, called the Tod’s Den, about three or four miles from the Castle of Ravenswood and as far from the ruinous tower of Wolf’s Crag, betwixt which two places it was situated.