"Meinie, ye hizzie, the cakes are scouthering! Dalyel! folk say his mother was in love wi' the deil; and my son Hab (a black day it was too when he first mounted his bandoleers,) ance saw a kail-stock scorched to the very heart when the auld knicht spat on it—but fearfu' men are suited to fearfu' times."
"Hush, Elshender," said Lady Grisel; "they are indeed times when we must fear the corbies on the roof, and the swallow under the eaves. One might deem the council to have a familiar fiend at their command, (like that fell warlock Weir, whose staff went errands,) for nought passes in cot or castle on this side of the highland frontier, but straightway they are informed of it. From whence could they have tidings that our gallant kinsman Quentin, and that fule body Bummel were at Bruntisfield? Landed at midnight from the Dutch frigate near the mouth of the lonely Figget Burn, they were secretly admitted to our house, in presence only of my baillie and most familiar servitors, who would not betray me. I rejoice the captain hath escaped their barbarities—but Ichabod, poor man!—I suppose his earthly troubles are well nigh over."
"A dreich time he'll have o't on the lonely Bass," said Meinie, turning the savory cakes, and blowing her pretty fingers. "There is naething there but gulls flapping and skirling, the soughing wind and roaring waves; but it will be a braw place to preach in, gif the red-coats let him. Oh, it would be the death o' me to be among these red-coats."
"Unless Hab Elshender were one," said Lilian: and Meinie blushed, for the linking of two names together has a strange charm to a young heart.
"Ou' aye," laughed the light-hearted girl; "but Maister Ichabod may cool his lugs blawing gospel owre the craigs, to the north wind, or gieing the waves a screed o' that blessed "Bombshell," he aye havers o'. Better that than skirling a psalm at the Bowfoot, till the doomster's axe comes down wi' a bang, and sends his head chittering into a basket. Ugh!'"
"Meinie, peace wi' this discourse, whilk beseems not!" said Elsie with great asperity. "I heard the lips o' the godly Renwick pray audibly, after his head lay in Pate Pincer's basket. Eh, sirs! what a head it is now. Yet the Netherbow guard watch it wi' cocked matches day and night, for there is mony a bold plot made by the Cameronians to carry it awa."
"But our unfortunate friend the preacher—how dearly, by his crushed limbs, has he paid for his zeal in the cause of the Dutch prince! Yet, as Heaven knoweth, I knew not that letters of treason to our Scottish nobles were in his possession, or never would he have darkened the door of Bruntisfield. He deceived me; let it pass. Sir Archibald, thou rememberest well my husband, Elsie?—'tis well that he sleeps in his grave. Oh, judge what he would have thought of our downfal and degradation!"
"My mind misgives me, my lady, but Sir Archibald's kirk was the fushionless ane o' episcopacy, and, indeed, he just gaed wherever the troops marched, with trumpets blawing and kettle-drums beating waefu' to hear in the day o' the Lord."
This last speech somewhat displeased Lady Grisel, who struck her cane thrice on the clay floor, and there ensued a long pause, broken only by creaking of the beeches in the adjoining grove, and the birr of Elsie's wheel as it whirled by the ruddy fire.
"Come, your Leddyship," said Elsie, "let byegones be byegones, and we'll be canty while we may. Meinie can sing like a laverock in the summer morning; sae, lassie, gie forth your best sang to please our lady, and then we'll hae our luggies o' milk, and bit o' your bannocks, a screed o' the blessed gospel, and syne awa to our rest, for its waxing late."