"Never, Sir! never will I be guilty of such a breach of hospitality and honour. Bethink ye, Sirs, the Captain Napier is my sister's son, and it would ill become a Scottish dame to prove false to her ain blude. The minister, though but a gomeral body, is his friend--one of those whom the people deem exiled and persecuted for Christ's sake--ye may hew me to pieces with your partisans, but never would I yield a fugitive to the tortures and executioners of that bluidy and infamous Council." And to give additional force to her words, Lady Grizel as usual struck the floor thrice with her cane. "Lady Bruntisfield," said Walter Fenton, gently, "beware lest our soldiers, or that dog the macer overhear you." "Glorious canary this!" muttered the Lieutenant, apostrophizing the silver mug--"hum--I believe your ladyship is a Presbyterian." "Though unused to be catechised by soldiers," replied the dame, drawing herself up with great dignity, "I acknowledge what all my neighbours know. I am Presbyterian, thank God, and so are all my household, who never miss a sabbath at kirk or meeting; and our minister is one, who having complied with the government regulations, hath an indulgence to preach." "This applies not to the spy of that rogue William of Orange--this pious Ichabod, whom we must hale forth by the lugs at every risk." "Never before was I suspected of disloyalty to the Scottish Crown," said Lady Grizel, sobbing, "and now in my auld and donnart days, with ane foot in the grave, it's hard to thole, Sirs--it's hard to thole. How often hae these hands, wrinkled now, and withered though they be, laced steel cap, greave and corslet, on my buirdly husband and his three fair sons. Ehwhow, Sirs! how often hae my very heart pulses died away with the clang o' their horses' hoofs in yonder avenue. Ane fell at Dumbar--another in his stirrups at the sack of Dundee, and my fair-haired Archy, my youngest and my best beloved, the apple o' my e'e, was shot deid by the side of his dying father, on the field of Inverkeithing. Save my sister's grandchild, all I loved have gone before me to God--but though my heart be seared, and my bower desolate, O Laird of Finland, this disgrace is harder to thole than a' I hae tholed in my time." Touched with her sorrow, Walter Fenton and Finland approached her; but ere they could speak, a dismal voice, that seemed to ascend from the profundity of some vast tun, was heard to sing, "I like an owle in desert am," &c., and the verse was scarcely concluded when the officer burst into a violent fit of laughter. "O, ye fule man!" exclaimed the old lady, shaking her cane wrathfully: "ye have ruined yoursel' and the House of Bruntisfield too!" "Where the devil is he?" said Douglas. "Ah, there must be some pannel here," he added, knocking on the wainscot with the pommel of his sword.