"Ay, ay—just as you see," hiccupped Nichol.
"Drunk?"
"Rather so, Sir Adam—that is—my lord."
"Sot! I verily believe thou wert born drunk. And where, then, is this Vipont now?"
"I neither ken nor care, for he escaped us."
"Am I then to believe, sot and slug-a-bed, that with all thy boasting thou hast failed?"
"Even so, in part."
"Dog! I will have your ears cut off for this."
"Bide ye there, Sir Adam," said the ruffian, deprecatingly, while he ground his teeth at his master's anger, "I have gien him a wound that he will carry to his grave; but God's plague on your feuds, Redhall, for in your service I have gotten a slash o' the knuckles that shall gar me rue lang the last night."
"Here is a pretty rascal;" exclaimed the advocate, almost beside himself with anger.