"Take ye care, sir!" cried John of Parkhill.
"Come now, you jest, my cousin," said the lieutenant, jocularly; "does a Leslie ever fall from his horse?"
"I only mean, beware thee while at Kinghorn, and keep thine errand secret; for there are several men of the house of Arran in the burgh, and their nags are stabled at the very hostel thou hast named."
"Nay, nay, uncle of mine," said the fiery Norman, "no Hamilton would arrest the pardon of any woman; then how much less that of a lady of high name and gentle blood!"
"Nephew Norman, we know not the tricks of which the Lord Arran and his faction are capable; and to whom shall we attribute this treble molestation of our cousin, the king's messenger?"
"True—adieu."
"Adieu, sirs, with many fair thanks for this good service."
They separated, and Balquhan rode on, feeling in his heart that he could slay all who bore the name of Hamilton; for the idea that Redhall was his evil genius never once occurred to him.
Those Leslies who had saved him were, nine years after, among the conspirators who slew the great cardinal in his castle at St. Andrew's, less to avenge the frightful deaths of the early martyrs, than as the hired assassins of Henry VIII.; and twenty years after, the fiery Master of Rothes died in the battle of St. Quentin, fighting valiantly at the head of thirty Scottish gens d'armes.