"Dick Hackerston, a burgess o' Edinburgh," replied the burly proprietor of the Jethart axe; "and my friends are also free burgesses and landward merchants like mysel'. My booth is nigh unto Master Posset's lodging,—an unco' strange man he is, my lady; he cured the sair eyne o' a bairn o' mine, by rubbing them thrice wi' a grey cat's tail."
"And you, sirs?" said the lady, smiling, and turning to Shelly and Patten.
"Englishmen, of Berwick," replied the former.
"Englishmen!" reiterated the fair chatelaine, colouring—for the laws against harbouring them were so severe as to involve the highest penalties.
"Be assured, madam," replied the confident Shelly; "we travel under the lord warden's especial protection."
"And I am Florence Fawside of that ilk, in East Lothian."
"I have heard of you—at least, of your family," replied the lady, while another gleam heightened her pale and pretty face, "and of their long feud with the Hamiltons of Preston. Dearly have such feuds cost me and mine! In one, my whole race perished, save myself; and in another, I lost my dear gudeman, his brother, and many brave friends and kinsmen, leaving me a forlorn widow, with these three sakeless bairns to rear."
"Live in hope, madam," replied Florence, with something of the spirit in which his mother reared him.
"Hope?" questioned the widow sadly, as she lifted her meek eyes to his; "what hope is there for me!"
"That these children may one day avenge you!"