Masks for the party were soon produced in sufficient number, and these, with their cloaks or plaids, would be disguise enough in the event of the night’s amusement growing to a breach of the laws, such being, by no means, an unlikely result. The warden desired his retainers to sit still and continue drinking till his return--directions with which they showed no unwillingness to comply; but as the masked party, brandishing their torches, shouting, singing, and laughing, descended the stair into the close, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ whispered to Maxwell to get his sword and accompany him. ‘There’ll be mair pows than ane crackit the night, or all’s done,’ remarked the borderer. ‘The warden’s no canny when he’s crossit. Aince the whingars be oot, I’m no thinkin’ muckle o’ yon’ Frenchman, an’ thae wild lads is clean wud wi’ drink. We’ll be nane the waur o’ a decent body like yoursel’, Mr Maxwell, just to strike in an’ see fair play.’ With the exception of a slight delay in the close, to witness Lord John’s performance of his promised hornpipe, the effect of which was somewhat marred by the gutter traversing the pavement, nothing occurred to check the progress of the rioters. Save for themselves, the street lay utterly quiet and deserted in the cold moonlight. The party, linking arms, reeled and swaggered on, followed, at no long interval, by ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ and Maxwell, both tolerably sober. Presently, Bothwell halted at the door of the only house from which lights were shining. ‘What say you, gentlemen?’ laughed the warden. ‘I know Master Craig, the mercer, well. It seems that he is expecting us. Shall we go in and take our rere-supper with pretty Mistress Alison, his daughter?’ ‘By all means!’ exclaimed d’Elbœuf. ‘The best dressed damsel that walks the High Street on Sundays. I should know her anywhere by the orange stripes on her farthingale.’ ‘And the bonniest lass on Leith Sands at the merry-making to-day,’ added Lord Robert. ‘I little thought when I gave her her fairings this morning, I should sup with her to-night!’ ‘The neatest foot and the tightest stocking in the Old Town,’ said Lord John, ‘and the best dancer to boot. Knock at the door, Bothwell, and bid them let us in, in the devil’s name!’ Concealing themselves under the wall of the house, the party waited, with much stifled merriment, the result of Bothwell’s application for admittance. His cautious knock was at first unanswered, but on repetition, the light was observed to be obscured at one of the windows, and a female head, scarcely so well arranged as that of Mistress Alison herself, was thrust into the moonlight, the owner demanding, in a guarded whisper, ‘What’s your wull?’ ‘Go down and unbar the door,’ answered Bothwell, in like tones of secrecy, and pulling his mask carefully over his face. ‘We have come to sup with your mistress.’