"Do not let us quarrel, sirs," said the tempter, with assumed meekness, crossing his hands upon his breast; "I am but the Lord Drummond's mouthpiece; and he said, Sir David, that your pay as captain of the king's arquebussiers would go but a short way, with a houseful of little Davies and Sybies crying for bannocks, cheese, and Christmas-boxes." This sneer enraged the soldier, but he heard it with apparent disdain. "So you will not win your brides, fair sirs--yea, with as many gold pieces each as would fill a Linlithgow firlot." "English, no doubt," said Falconer. "Of course," added Barton; "what other coin could pay for Scottish treason? No--we will not win our brides thus, but by lance and sword will we win them on the morrow; so, base slubberdegullion, slip your cable and sheer off--begone, or by my father's bones, now bleaching in the English Downs, I will tie thee in thy Mar's frock as in a sack, and sink thee with a whinstone bullet; though thou art more likely to die with a fathom of rope than a fathom of water over thy shaven crown! Away; ship your oars, my hearts," he added, springing into the boat, as Falconer leaped on his horse; "Farewell, gossip Davie--God speed thee back to Stirling, and give us victory on the morrow. I will not forget to look for the yellow plume, though I pray it may never come here on the head of a fugitive king. Give way, lads; we have been off a full hour by the glass;--give way for the ship." The boat shot off from the shore into the stream, the rowers keeping time with Dalquhat, who pulled the stroke oar, and all their blades flashed in the moonlight, as Sir David Falconer, without bestowing a word or glance on the recreant friar, galloped up the slope and along the Carse by the old Roman Way that led to Stirling. The moment they were gone, the friar threw back his hood and displayed to the white moon, then sailing high aloft in the clear blue sky, the evil visage of Hew Borthwick, over the deep sinister eyes and hateful mouth of whom a laugh spread as he said-- "Fools! The bodachs of Angus, the men of the Mearns, the Whelps of the Black Bitch, and the Souters of Selkirk--yea, even the canny folk of Aberdeen--are in arms against you, and yet ye hope for victory! I am now a Stirling laird, duly infeft and seized with earth and stone. Well, well! they laugh merrily who laugh the last. A little more of Henry's gold, and my fortune is made! In the battle of to-morrow, a crown will be lost and won; and I shall gain a thousand _crowns_ if I can bear to Berwick-gate sure tidings of King James's death! The _yellow plume---the yellow plume_,--I shall watch for it in yonder field to-morrow as one who is damned watches for the first blink of redemption!" CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GREY HORSE. "I would the wind that is sweeping now O'er the restless and weary wave; Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough O'er the calm of my early grave." _Scottish Song._