"The English faction!" muttered Fawside. "By Heaven, 'tis high time I had the water of Esk behind my horse's heels. And these lords——"
"Are all on their way to Stirling, to keep tryste with the Lord Regent."
"Fool that I was, not to know at once the shakefork of the stable worn by the ruffians of Glencairn," said Fawside, referring to the cognizance of the Cunninghames, which is argent, a shakefork sable, granted to Henry of Kilmaurs, who was master stabler to King Alexander III.
"And those fellows in pyne doublets and cuirasses?"
"With the oak branch in their burganets, and morsing horns at their girdles?"
"Yes."
"They are the liverymen of the laird of Preston."
"Of Claude Hamilton of Preston!" exclaimed Fawside, instinctively assuming his sword.
"Yes."
"By St. Giles, I was right to speak below my beard, and utter not my name." Then, in a fierce whisper, he added, "Is he here?"