The bell in the tower of St. Anthony's preceptory--a tower demolished by the English cannon in 1559--was just tolling eleven, when Hew Borthwick blew the copper horn which hung by a chain at the outer gate of the King's Wark, and hastily inquired for the Laird of Blackcastle, or for the Lords Home or Hailes. These names secured to him an immediate passage among the Douglases, Homes, and Hepburns who loitered about or slept on the floor or benches of the passages, hall, and vestibule, and two pages, having the Hepburn arms--two Scottish lions rending an English rose--ushered the bravo at once into a chamber, the walls of which were hung with old amber-coloured arras, sewn over with red stars and green thistles, the work, it was said, of Elizabeth, Duchess of Brittany, daughter of James I. This apartment was encumbered by arms and armour; halberts and lances were piled against the walls; two large sconces of tin, having in each four candles, gave sufficient light to the two reckless young lords, who were playing at chess, and sipping wine from silver cups, while the pages were conveying away the remains of the baked chicken and pie of plumdames on which they had just made their rere-supper. Their daggers, belts, and cuirasses were flung aside, and they wore loose ample gowns of dark woollen cloth, lined with brightly coloured silk, and edged with stripes of fine sable. "Thou hast come betimes, sir," said Hailes; "and doubtless hast succeeded, too." "I seldom fail in aught I undertake, my lord. A ready wit, a clear head, a bold heart, and nimble hands, are ever required by those who have light purses and high ambition," was the confident reply. "Thou hast rather an active tongue too, sirrah," said Lord Home, frowning. "'Tis the only inheritance my good mother left me," said the unabashed Borthwick. "Enough of this--the letter, if thou hast it!" Borthwick still lingered, till Hailes scornfully tossed to him a fleur-de-lys, and then he received the letter at once. He untied the ribbons, opened and scrutinized it with stern and curious eyes. He then counted the lines repeatedly, and looked at the address--but of that and the contents neither he nor Hailes could decypher one word. "Curse on this conjuror's art!" said he; "'tis the Dean of Dunblane hath taught dame Euphemia and her sisters this clerkly craft. Had they learned how to make hippocras, to knead a pasty, to collar a pig, or to throw a hawk well off, it had been wiser! Canst thou make out this devilish scrawl, my lord?" "Nay, not I, thank God! If I can mumble _Kyrie Eleison_, or _Christi Eleison_, at Mass, 'tis all my book lear." "Ouf! for a fair dame's epistle, what an odour it hath of herrings and tar!" And now there was a pause. Home thrust aside the chessmen; Hailes took a sip at his wine-cup, and curled up his moustachios, while Borthwick stood by with a sneer on his face, and watched them, smiling in his heart at their absurd perplexity.