"Oh, it matters nocht to me," said the laird with a cunning laugh; "but I thocht ye might sup the easier without your lang iron spit and braw baldrick."
A repast of the plainest kind, but great in quantity, consisting mainly of brose, haggis, sowons, and porridge with prunes in it, was now served up, with cold beef, and venison hams; and, while the two retainers of Claude Hamilton sat somewhat apart, darting covert scowls from under their shaggy brows at their master's feudal enemy, they, as well as Millheugh's hungry foresters, made great havock among the contents of the piled platters and ample cogies with which the table was furnished—viands which were washed down by a river of ruddy-brown ale, flowing from a large cask set upon a bin, in a stone recess, the Gothic canopy of which showed that in the days of the present proprietor's father therein had stood a crucifix and holy-water font, wherein all were wont to dip their fingers before sitting down to meals;—but the times were changing fast, and the minds, manners, and morals of the people were changing with them.
When supper was over, Florence, weary with his long and rough ride of so many miles, and heartily sick of the laird's coarse, if not brutal conversation, retired to rest; and believing himself in perfect security, divested himself of his attire, and was soon in a profound and dreamless slumber—so profound, that he heard not at midnight three very decided attempts which were made by certain parties without to force his door, the many locks and bars of which, however, fortunately stood firm and were his friends. Soundly he slept, though his couch was made only of soft heather, packed closely in on an oblong frame, with the points uppermost, and a sheet spread over it, in the old Scottish fashion. But towards morning—all unconscious that he was a prisoner—sounds of distant merriment came floating to his ear, and awoke him for a time.
That night, and for hours after midnight had passed, Millheugh and his men drank deeply in the rude and ancient hall, and their songs and boisterous laughter, came to the ear of Florence by fits, upon the weird howling of the morning wind. One drunken ditty, composed by some West Lothian (and long forgotten) song-writer, on Preston's never sober butler, seemed an especial favourite, and a score of voices made its chorus shake the vaulted roof of the old tower. It ran thus:—
"Symon Brodie had a cow:
When she was lost, he couldna find her;
But he did a' that man could do,
Till she cam' hame wi her tail behind her.
Honest bald Symon Brodie,
Stupid auld doitit bodie!
Gin ye pass by Preston Tower,
Birl the stoup wi Preston Brodie.
"Symon Brodie had a wife,
And wow! but she was braw and bonnie;
A clout she tuik frae off the buik,
And preened it on her cockernonie.
Honest bald Symon Brodie,
Stupid auld drunken bodie!
For Claude, the laird o' Preston Tower,
Has kiss'd the wife o' Symon Brodie."
Florence awoke late—at least, late for 1547; the time-dial indicated the hour of eleven; when he rose, dressed himself, and descended to the hall, with his purse in his hand to scatter a largess among the servants, to breakfast, and then begone with all speed.
By various pretexts, the laird procrastinated the time for his departure, till Fawside was at last compelled to order his horse peremptorily. Then Allan Duthie threw aside all disguise, and laughed outright at him.
Florence started from the table, and with his hand on his sword approached the door of the hall.
Then the laird snatched up an arquebuse with a lighted match, and at the head of several domestics, variously armed, prepared to dispute his exit, by completely barring the way; at this critical stage of their proceedings the sound of a hunting-horn, blown loudly at the gate, made even the most forward of the brawlers pause to a time.