‘Secure the other rascal,’ said the Warden, turning his horse’s head homeward. ‘Let Dick Rutherford and two more jackmen bring him on in the rear. Help Mr Maxwell to his horse, some of you, and leave that carrion to the crows.’ The cavalcade was now set in motion, Bothwell and Mr Randolph riding together in front; the former, after a hasty greeting to his kinsman, appearing to devote his whole attention to the ambassador. Maxwell, whose relationship to the Warden made him an object of interest to the jackmen, came on in the rear at a slower pace, for his horse was now completely exhausted. He was, however, accompanied by the borderer who had rescued him, and who seemed to have taken a great fancy to him for his swordsmanship. Dick Rutherford, or, as he was more commonly called, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ set much store by that cool courage which he himself possessed in no common degree; and as he looked on every hand-to-hand encounter in the light of a pastime, at which he was himself a first-rate performer, so he could never withhold a certain amount of facetious approbation from any other skilful player at the game. He was, at this period, the Warden’s henchman or principal man-at-arms, and would have followed his chief to the death, for Bothwell had the knack of winning the hearts of his retainers by a rude cordiality and boisterous frankness akin to their own. The Warden could drain a deeper cup, back a wilder horse, and couch a heavier spear than the rudest of his jackmen; his fine manly person, great strength, and soldier-like bearing, fascinated while they controlled these savage natures; and whatever deep designs may have lurked beneath this frank exterior, James Hepburn seemed to have no ambition beyond the reputation of being the boldest borderer on the Marches. He would ride alone, or attended only by ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ through the worst of these lawless districts, and the latter was never tired of detailing the hand-to-hand encounters with freebooters, in which the Warden had come off victorious. Dick, too, was an adept in all the intricacies of his profession. He could follow a trail like a bloodhound, fight like a demon, and drink and ride like--a borderer. With all this, his great strong body contained a soft heart, and an inexhaustible fund of good-humour. After looking at Maxwell in silent admiration for a space of five minutes, he began-- ‘I would ha’ wagered a hundred merks now that there wasna’ a man in Scotland could ha’ kept little Jock Elliott at half-sword like that; and he on his white-footed gelding with his long lance in his hand. Jock will no’ hear the last o’ it from me in a hurry. I trow he’s found his match o’ this side Teviotdale, brag how he may!’ ‘You know him, then?’ asked Maxwell, somewhat surprised to discover such an intimate acquaintance with an outlaw on the part of the Warden’s henchman.