"Well, sister! These baillies and deacons in their holiday gaberdines and worsted hosen--these websters and makers of bonnets and daggers--these grimy fourbissers, lorimers, and dalmaskers of iron, with their carlins in curchies and plaids, do well and wisely to cringe and vail their bonnets to-day." "Wherefore?" "Have we not two thousand horse marshalled under our banner?" said the young earl, who shared to the full the emotions of the haughty girl, his wife. "True, my lord and cousin; but they might, like dour carles, bite their thumbs, and scowl at us from under their bonnets, for all our bravery," replied Murielle. "'Tis a beautiful horse that roan of Sir Patrick Gray," said the earl; "and its housings are----" "Gules and or," interrupted Murielle, for then all well-bred people knew the science of heraldry. "His own colours, of course, and _not_ the king's," said the countess, with an artful smile; "you laugh lightly, Murielle, because you love that man." "Is it a sign of love to be merry?" asked Murielle, softly, while her fine eyes dilated with wonder. "Nay, sister, 'tis more often a sign of love to be sad, and sad enough you were at times in Thrave. But please God and St. Bryde, dear Murielle, even in these stormy times, no cloud shall cast a shadow on any love of yours." "Even if he be the Captain of the King's Guard," said little Lord David, with the spirit of a mischievous boy. His cousin coloured with an air of annoyance, but said smilingly, while holding up a tiny finger, "Oh fie, Davie, you had almost said----" "The captain of our enemy's band of hirelings," said the fiery young earl, interrupting her; "and, under the royal favour, he would have said right. I know, sweet cousin, what my brother _thinks_, however he may speak, or not speak." This unpleasant turn to the conversation caused the timid Murielle to shrink within herself, and the little lord was beginning to laugh maliciously when a sudden brawl ensued in the crowd, and Sir Malcolm Fleming, of Cumbernauld, on finding his horse incommoded by a group of magistrates and deacons, daringly struck one of the former on the head with the shaft of his lance, exclaiming, "Back, sirrah, back! By St. Bryde, I will rend the auld carle's beard frae his jaws!" "A Douglas! a Douglas!" cried a horseman in a _closed_ helmet, pressing briskly forward. This man was Abercorn's creature, James Achanna, who, with his poleaxe, was ready to strike on _both_ sides to ferment a brawl, by which the grand _coup_ in the castle on the morrow might be anticipated. "Armour--rescue!" cried a number of the armed craftsmen, pressing also forward with swords drawn and partizans lowered menacingly, as they were justly indignant at an affront offered to one of their magistrates.