"By whom?—by whom?" cried the earl.
"The master of the king's ordnance, who (everybody says) is a fast friend of the Lord Ashkirk; but, God's death! if ever the one or the other come under my hands—if I can just get one canny cloure at them—neither will ever need another!" and, setting his teeth, the fellow assumed an aspect of ferocity, and hewed a large piece off the table with his sharp-bladed axe.
"Friend Tam, thou seemest very savage and blood-thirsty," said the earl, in his bantering tone; "but I must request thee to restrain thy troublesome vivacity, and not so damage my furniture, the stock of which is somewhat limited. Ha! ha! and so Vipont hath pinked thy master?—and where?"
"Here—just in the shoulder; but it seems braw news for you," replied Trotter, sulkily.
"The thrust is not near the heart, I hope?" said the earl, almost leaping with joy; "not near his amiable heart—oh, do not say so—I shall quite expire if thou tellest me that!"
"Devil take me, if I ken what to make o' you," said Tam, with a face half comical and half angry; "for, by my faith, you are a queer chield!"
"And thou art a good-hearted fellow?"
"My mother aye says sae, though she bangs me wi' the beetle, for being fonder o' porridge than plowing in the morning."
"So his mother beats him?" muttered the earl; "good!—the fellow is a mere simpleton."
"Is he?" rejoined Trotter, closing one eye, with his tongue in his cheek, and kicking his iron heels together; "try me, and you will see if I am sic a simpleton?"