It was not noon when he arrived at the Castle Wedderburn. The porter at the gate retreated in terror, as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa king had become terrible on the Borders, and even the king had been glad to grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to the presence of the knight--"What is it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir Patrick, "that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men?" "Honest!" said the gipsy--"ha! ha! ha! I daresay your honesty and mine are muckle about a par. Between us twa it is, tak who can. Ye hae the bit land, Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or a more cunning hand, nor yet a sharper sword, than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak at evens wi' me, lest ye rue it." "And wherefore should I speak at evens," answered Hume, "with the like o' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men?" "The mischief light on ye!" said the gipsy; "ye have provoked me sair, and I have tholed wi' your slights and taunting; but try me not wi' another word, lest ye rue it, Sir Patrick Hume, and your brother rue it, and every Hume o' the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool, for refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa." "And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave?" cried the knight. "Merely," retorted the gipsy, "that there is a bonny lassie, ane wha is owre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel, now lying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while ye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue." "Of whom speak ye?" vociferated the Laird of Wedderburn. "Who," rejoined the gipsy, slyly, "is nearest to your heart?--who nearest to your door? Have you seen her within these four days?" "What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, "speak ye of my Margaret?" "Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak?" said Faa. "It is then to her that ye allude?" cried Sir Patrick. "Ay, it is to her," was the reply; "and what knight are ye that would remain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden o' your love?" "Pardon me, stranger," said Sir Patrick; "tell me where she is." "Ye ask me to pardon ye now," answered the gipsy, proudly; "ye knew me before, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because ye bear a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds of war, that I come to you; but it is because of the maiden who loves you as the Mayfly does the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and her sister are the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone. He has looked with an eye of covetousness upon their estates--he longs to possess them; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the fair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit." The knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. "Thank ye, thank ye," he cried; "I will reward ye for this act of kindness."