“By flattering his love of vengeance, Bucklaw,” answered Craigengelt. “He has always distrusted me; but I watched my time, and struck while his temper was red-hot with the sense of insult and of wrong. He goes now to expostulate, as he says, and perhaps thinks, with Sir William Ashton. I say, that if they meet, and the lawyer puts him to his defence, the Master will kill him; for he had that sparkle in his eye which never deceives you when you would read a man’s purpose. At any rate, he will give him such a bullying as will be construed into an assault on a privy councillor; so there will be a total breach betwixt him and government. Scotland will be too hot for him; France will gain him; and we will all set sail together in the French brig ‘L’Espoir,’ which is hovering for us off Eyemouth.” “Content am I,” said Bucklaw; “Scotland has little left that I care about; and if carrying the Master with us will get us a better reception in France, why, so be it, a God’s name. I doubt our own merits will procure us slender preferment; and I trust he will send a ball through the Keeper’s head before he joins us. One or two of these scoundrel statesmen should be shot once a year, just to keep the others on their good behaviour.” “That is very true,” replied Craigengelt; “and it reminds me that I must go and see that our horses have been fed and are in readiness; for, should such deed be done, it will be no time for grass to grow beneath their heels.” He proceeded as far as the door, then turned back with a look of earnestness, and said to Bucklaw: “Whatever should come of this business, I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that I said nothing to the Master which could imply my accession to any act of violence which he may take it into his head to commit.” “No, no, not a single word like accession,” replied Bucklaw; “you know too well the risk belonging to these two terrible words, ‘art and part.’” Then, as if to himself, he recited the following lines: “The dial spoke not, but it made shrewd signs, And pointed full upon the stroke of murder. “What is that you are talking to yourself?” said Craigengelt, turning back with some anxiety. “Nothing, only two lines I have heard upon the stage,” replied his companion. “Bucklaw,” said Craigengelt, “I sometimes think you should have been a stage-player yourself; all is fancy and frolic with you.” “I have often thought so myself,” said Bucklaw. “I believe it would be safer than acting with you in the Fatal Conspiracy. But away, play your own part, and look after the horses like a groom as you are. A play-actor—a stage-player!” he repeated to himself; “that would have deserved a stab, but that Craigengelt’s a coward. And yet I should like the profession well enough. Stay, let me see; ay, I would come out in Alexander: