The four travellers now hastily put on their helmets, which hitherto had been hung at the bow of their saddles, and for which, during their ride from Stirling, they had substituted bonnets of blue cloth.
"Stand, sirs!" said Florence. "Who are you!"
"Strangers," replied a voice, and then two horsemen became visible amid the gloom of the interlaced trees,—"strangers, who have lost their way in this devilish forest."
"This devilish forest belongs to the queen of Scotland; and how come you to be singing here by night?"
"By the Mass! I knew not that it was a crime to sing by night any more than to sing by day," exclaimed the other, laughing; "I do so when it listeth me."
"'Twas something unwary, at all events," continued Florence, advancing so close that he could perceive the speaker, by his air and manner, to be undoubtedly a gentleman; "but, as your song discovers your country, say, my friends, what make you here, so far from your own borders?"
"We do not yet make war," replied the other; "be assured, fair sir, we have only lost our way, and sorely lack a guide."
"For whence?"
"The highway to Berwick, to which place we belong."
"A word with you."