"But not untameable," responded the fiery old chancellor, with a spark of rage in his hollow eyes.
"To the point, my lords, under favour of the king," said Sir Patrick Gray, gnawing his moustache in his impatience.
CHAPTER XLIII.
A LADLEFUL OF GOLD.
Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loon,
Nor shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken bush
That grows on yon lilye lee.—Old Ballad.
"What more have I to hear of this false noble and his followers?" said the king, after briefly, and to Gray's great annoyance, rehearsing the whole story of the murder of his vassal, the miller of Carluke, in the sanctuary of Lesmahago.
"The earl has lawlessly seized, and ignominiously imprisoned, in his hold of Thrave, a good and loyal servant of your majesty."
"That is nothing new; but what is his name?" asked James, grasping the arms of the chair, and thrusting aside the tabourette with his foot, while his hazel eyes flashed fire with anger, and his dark brows were knit.
"Sir Thomas MacLellan, of Bombie," replied the chancellor, with grave energy.
"My friend—the Lieutenant of my Guard!"
"My brave kinsman!"