"Behold! thou foolish vixen," said he--"_thou_ art the dove, and _I_ am the hawk; and thus shall I conquer in the end!" Even as he spoke, the hawk soused down upon its quarry, and both sank to the earth. The pigeon was dead! Lilian never spoke; but bent upon her tormentor a glance of horror, scorn, and contempt, so intense that he even quailed before it, while darting past him, she rushed towards the house. The intruder then leaped the garden wall; and, followed by his stout henchman, hurried towards Edinburgh. CHAPTER XV. A STATESMAN OF 1688. Call you these news? You might as well have told me, That old King Coil is dead, and graved at Kylesfield. I'll help thee out----. AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY, ACT II. Some weeks after this, at a late hour one night, Lord Clermistonlee was seated by the capacious fireplace in his chamber-of-dais. He was alone. A supper of Crail capons and roasted crabs, a white loaf, and wine posset, had just been discussed; and he was resorting to his favourite tankard of burnt sack, when a loud knocking was heard at the outer gate. His lordship was decidedly in a bad humour: satiated with a long career of gaiety, he had resolved to give this night to retirement, to reverie, and to maturing his plans against Lilian, whose beauty and manner in the last interview had inspired him with something like a real passion for her. He remembered with pain the hatred and the horror expressed in her parting glance. The memory of it had sunk deeply in his heart; and he bitterly repented the destruction of her favourite pigeon; for he felt that this cruel act had increased the gulf between them. The knocking at the gate recalled his thoughts. "'Sdeath!" said he, "who dares to knock so loud and late? Ha! it may be a macer of council; we have had no news from London for these fourteen days past. Now, by all the devils, who can this be?" A person was heard ascending the stair, and singing in a very cracked voice the Old Hundredth Psalm. Clermistonlee started, and looked around for a cane, marvelling who dared to insult him in his own house. A psalm! he could hardly believe his ears. "Pshaw!" said he, recognising the voice, as Juden ushered in Lord Mersington, who entered unsteadily, balancing himself on each leg alternately: his broad hat was awry, and his wig gone; but a silk handkerchief tied round his head supplied its place. The learned senator was in one of his usual altitudes. "How now, gossip!" said Clermistonlee, impatiently; "whence this unwonted piety?" "Out upon thee, son of Belial! Dost not see that the Spirit is strong within me?" "Rather too plainly; but sit down, man--thy tankard of burnt sack hath grown cold. Juden prepares it nightly quite as a matter of course. Any news from our army yet?"