"You may," replied Florence, "but under favour, sir, in these times of feud and mistrust, is it safe for me, a stranger, who has no friend near but his single sword, to mention his name to one who speaks so freely of having some twenty horse or so within call?"
"You have somewhat of a foreign accent?"
"Perhaps so—I have been these seven years past in France."
"France—umph! Hence your mistrust."
"Exactly so. The land of Catholics and Huguenots, bastiles and gendarmerie, was exactly the place to teach prudence to the tongue and patience to the hand."
"Then I claim the same right to mistrust and reserve," said the stranger haughtily; "though when only man to man I see but little reason for it, especially as I am an auld carle, and thou art lithe and young."
Florence felt a glow of anger at this remark; but he thought of his letters, his recent wounds, of Bothwell, Glencairn, &c., and merely replied evasively,—
"Your horse awaits you here—so let us mount."
"Whither go you; or is that a secret too?"
"Nay—I ride for Cadzow."