“O ay!” returned the knight, with unmitigated rigour of resentment— “profess—profess—Ay, that is the new phrase of asseveration, instead of the profane adjuration of courtiers and cavaliers—Oh, sir, _profess_ less and _practise_ more—and so good day to you. Master Kerneguy, you will find beverage in my apartment.” While Phœbe stood gaping in admiration at the sudden quarrel which had arisen, Colonel Everard’s vexation and resentment was not a little increased by the nonchalance of the young Scotsman, who, with his hands thrust into his pockets, (with a courtly affectation of the time,) had thrown himself into one of the antique chairs, and, though habitually too polite to laugh aloud, and possessing that art of internal laughter by which men of the world learn to indulge their mirth without incurring quarrels, or giving direct offence, was at no particular pains to conceal that he was exceedingly amused by the result of the Colonel’s visit to Woodstock. Colonel Everard’s patience, however, had reached bounds which it was very likely to surpass; for, though differing widely in politics, there was a resemblance betwixt the temper of the uncle and nephew. “Damnation” exclaimed the Colonel, in a tone which became a puritan as little as did the exclamation itself. “Amen!” said Louis Kerneguy, but in a tone so soft and gentle, that the ejaculation seemed rather to escape him than to be designedly uttered. “Sir!” said Everard, striding towards him in that sort of humour, when a man, full of resentment, would not unwillingly find an object on which to discharge it. “_Plait-il?_” said the page, in the most equable tone, looking up in his face with the most unconscious innocence. “I wish to know, sir,” retorted Everard, “the meaning of that which you said just now?” “Only a pouring out of the spirit, worthy sir,” returned Kerneguy—“a small skiff dispatched to Heaven on my own account, to keep company with your holy petition just now expressed.” “Sir, I have known a merry gentleman’s bones broke for such a smile as you wear just now,” replied Everard. “There, look you now” answered the malicious page, who could not weigh even the thoughts of his safety against the enjoyment of his jest—“If you had stuck to your professions, worthy sir, you must have choked by this time; but your round execration bolted like a cork from a bottle of cider, and now allows your wrath to come foaming out after it, in the honest unbaptized language of common ruffians.” “For Heaven’s sake, Master Girnegy,” said Phœbe, “forbear giving the Colonel these bitter words! And do you, good Colonel Markham, scorn to take offence at his hands—he is but a boy.”