Douglas joined in the laugh against himself, as Annie was led off by his rival, while Walter gave his hand to Lilian, and they hastened back to the ball-room in the happiest mood. Douglas, while loitering a little behind to clasp the braces of his cuirass, was attracted by the voice of Lord Clermistonlee, a man whom, of all others in Edinburgh, he disliked, in consequence of an old grudge between them, when they exchanged blows in a brawl at Blair's Coffee-house. Though he scorned being a spy upon his Lordship, the fact of his overhearing the name of Lilian Napier pronounced in a very audible whisper--his knowledge of the speaker's passion, and of what he was capable--formed a sufficient whet to his curiosity, and were, he deemed, quite a warrant for assuming the unpleasant part of eavesdropper. Clermistonlee was standing near a gate, which afforded communication between the crowded courtyard and the quiet gardens, and through its iron bars the bright moonlight streamed upon the rich embroidery of his gay attire, on the brilliants of his hat-band, buckles, and silver-hilted rapier. Near him stood a stout and thickset old man in green livery, having a massive crest and coronet worked on each sleeve. A broad belt encircled his waist, and sustained a heavy basket-hilted sword. He was a little intoxicated, and balancing himself on one leg, snapped his fingers while chaunting the merry old catch,-- "Though I go bare, take ye no care I nothing am acolde; I stuff my skinne so full within, With jollie gude ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go colde; But bellie, God give thee gude ale enough, Whether it be newe or olde. I love no roste, but a nut-brown toste----" "God's curse, rascal!" said his master angrily, "in this mood you will never arrange the matter satisfactorily." "Trust me, my Lord, trust me," stammered Juden, rubbing his bald pate with a sudden air of perplexity, which showed that the _matter_ referred to had quite escaped him; "but ane needs a lang spoon to sup kail wi' the deil, and you are kittler than the great serpent himsel." "Gadzooks! old limb of Beelzebub, thou art drunk already; but hear me, Juden, if you fail in this service to-night, old though ye be, by the Heaven that hears us, I will handle my whip in such wise that a coffin will be your next resting place." The eyes of the fierce Lord gleamed as he spoke, though his face was pale with that white fury which is ever the index of a bad and bitter heart, and is much more to be dreaded than the red flush of passion that suffuses a generous brow. "How many followers hath the dame of Bruntisfield in her train to-night?" "Four, my Lord--her chairmen." "Armed, of course?" "Like myself, ilk ane wi' a gude basket-hilted whinger. They are a' in Lucky Tippeny's Changehouse outbye, birling the ale cogue like sae many lords or troopers."