"From the fan of little Sybil Douglas, at the queen's masque yesterday."
"The little firefly! Seats, gentlemen, seats! By my faith, you are in ill-luck. 'Tis quite a fast-day with me, this, and you will sup like starveling Franciscans."
"Fast!" said tall Forrester, as he threw aside his cloak and plume: "by St. Roque! if this is a fast-day, what are thy festivals? But who is thy provant master—thy fourrier de campement?"
"My servitor—my trusty Lintstock."
"Mass! would that I had such a valet as thou, and such noble credit with my wine-merchant. Thou seest, Leslie, what it is to be the king's favourite. Verily, Sir Roland Vipont carries a coronet on the point of his sword. Rogue! thou must pray well to have all these good things."
"Nay, nay," said young Leslie, with a burst of reckless laughter, "he pays old Father St. Bernard to do all that for him."
"Hast heard the news?"
"Nay, what news, Sir John?"
"Thou art to boune thee for the borders; for the king swore in my hearing he would find other work for thy sword than killing his most favourite courtiers."
"These rascally Hamiltons? But Kincavil is not dead, I hope?"