"Nay, I am no bibber, believe me."
"We get brave gude wine hereawa in Leith, sir, by our trade with the Flemings of the Dam."
"After seven years in a foreign land, gudeman," said Florence, slapping the hosteller kindly on the back, while his heart swelled and his eyes filled, "your Scottish tongue comes like music to my ear—yea, like the melody o' an auld song, man; and I snuff up my native air like a young horse turned out to grass; for, save once a year, by a letter given me by a passing traveller hastening Paris-ward, I have heard naught from home, or of aught that passed in Scotland here."
"Nocht, said ye?"
"Naught—so the term of my absence seems marvellously long—naught but evil," he added, with a darkening expression of face.
"Evil!"
"Yea; for I have returned to avenge the death of a dear kinsman."
"Such errands are nothing new in Scotland," said Ralf Riddel, sighing and shrugging his shoulders.
"No—in these hot days of feud and endless quarrelling. 'Tis a heavy task I have in hand, gudeman; but it must be done, when I have obeyed the behests of those I left in France."
"Belong you to hereawa, sir?"