The wine was, by this time, producing its effect on the company. The men-at-arms were beginning to flush and talk thick, descanting, without much regard for listeners, on the merits of their horses and their own prowess, both in fighting and carrying off the property of their neighbours; the latter branch of their profession being obviously esteemed equally honourable with, and the natural prelude to, or consequence of, the former. Even Maxwell’s brain was somewhat heated; albeit, he was naturally of a temperament on which wine is slow to take effect, and his late arrival had spared him some of the pledges of the borderers; although, to do them justice, they evinced a most hospitable desire to make up for lost time. Bothwell, too, who had been plunged in gloomy fits of abstraction, and who seemed to rouse himself with difficulty from some engrossing subject of meditation, was now getting as hilarious as the rest. D’Elbœuf was full of smiles and spirits, and scraps of French songs, somewhat wasted on his audience; whilst Lord John, whose ruling passion was of course in the ascendant, proposed gravely to dance a measure amongst the jugs and drinking cups on the table, and actually mounted a chair as the first step towards that difficult performance. At this juncture, a ray of moonlight streaming through the narrow windows, athwart the glare of lamps and torches, gave a new turn to the impulses of the merry-makers. ‘It’ll be a bra’ night this in Liddesdale,’ observed ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ who was given to sentiment in his cups. ‘A rare night for a foray!’ exclaimed Lord Robert, producing from the interior of his bonnet two or three black velvet masks, such as were then frequently worn in cities by both sexes. ‘Shall we have a cruise, admiral?’ said Bothwell. ‘I doubt not I can find you in vizards, for you and I are both well enough known in Edinburgh to meet fewer friends than foes.’ D’Elbœuf agreed cordially to the proposal. Like his countrymen in general, he was averse to continuous hard-drinking, and a night of adventure in the town was more to his taste than a steady carouse with these inexhaustible borderers. His host, too, appeared in the restless mood of a man who has some secret pain goading him to action. The more he drank, the fiercer seemed to grow the impulse to be doing. When the arch-tempter wants a tool that shall be at once keen and strong, he takes a bold vigorous nature; he humbles it in its own eyes; he wounds it in its best affections; he whispers, ‘do to others as _they have done_ unto you;’ then he tempers it in the furnace of memory, and sharpens it carefully on the grindstone of remorse; finally, he steeps it in rough strong wine; after that, it is fit for anything, and will cut through steel harness and muslin fold with vindictive impartiality.