"I should like one good gallop," Roger sighed, as he pulled at the rein, and the horse proceeded at a pace better suited to the appearance of its rider.
"A nice figure you would look, with your robes streaming behind you," Oswald laughed. "There would soon be a story going through the country, of a mad monk.
"Now, we take this turning to the right, and here leave the main north road, for we are bound, in the first place, to Roxburgh."
"I thought that it must be that, or Berwick, though I asked no questions."
"We shall not travel like this beyond Roxburgh, but shall journey forward on foot."
"I supposed that we should come to that, Master Oswald, for otherwise you would not have told me to provide myself with a staff."
They journeyed pleasantly along. Whenever they approached any town or large village, Oswald reined back his horse a little, so that its head was on a level with Roger's stirrup. They slept that night at Kirknewton, where they put up at a small hostelry. Oswald had intended going to the monastery there, but Roger begged so earnestly that they should put up elsewhere, that he yielded to him.
"I should have no end of questions asked, as to our journey across the border, and its object," Roger said; "and it always goes against my conscience to have to lie, unless upon pressing occasions."