Lights had now been brought, and the candles, in the brass sconces which hung on the tapestried wall, cast lines of steady radiance across the otherwise gloomy old chamber. The arras was drawn across the windows, in the gratings of which, as well as through the battlement of the tower overhead, the wind was whistling. Red and white wine, in flasks of Venetian silver, glittered on the table; and to these was added usquebaugh, in one of those stone jars which came from Flanders, and had in front a bearded mask; whence the Scottish name of "greybeard" for a whisky-jar to this day.
The friends drew their seats close to the table.
MacLellan carefully wiped the dew from his sword, a short weapon, the steel of which was embrowned—a fancy of the time (whence, perhaps, the "berry-brown blades" of old songs)—and in it were little flutes, to permit the blood to run off when used in mortal strife; for our Scottish sires studied all these little matters to a nicety. MacLellan's handsome and athletic figure was displayed to advantage in his steel cuirass and gorget, his hanging sleeves, and long black riding-boots, the tops of which were strapped to his girdle. His face was ruddy and sunburnt; his black curly hair was closely cropped, in the fashion of the time; he had a moustache, though then military men wore it seldom, and none but the old indulged in beards.
With considerable animation, he related his adventures among the hills and forests of Athole,—the capture of the great freebooter,—the sudden resistance offered by him and his followers at Perth,—and the conflict on the north Inch, without the city wall. To all this Gray listened with some impatience, nor did he begin to evince any interest until the lieutenant, at the conclusion of his narrative, detailed his sojourn at his castle of Raeberry, in Galloway.
"What news bring you from that part of the country?" he asked.
"The burden of the old song—rief and stouthrief, oppression, hamesücken, and outrage, on the part of the Douglases, who make all bow to their rule; so that no man, of whatsoever rank he be, or however strong his dwelling, can lie down to sleep with the certainty of being a live man at the dawn of day."
"And what of dame Margaret?"
"Well," replied MacLellan, holding a glass of red wine between him and the light, to watch the gossamer beeswing as it floated to and fro, "you have heard, of course, how loosely the wedding-ring hung on her fair finger?"
"How—how?" asked Gray, impetuously.
"Is it possible that you do not know?" asked MacLellan, with surprise.