"Some say the roads are deep, sweet mistress," said General Dalyell; "and others say the Orangemen are deeper: but the deil a scrap hath reached the Council since that rinawa' loon Craigdarroch arrived; and gude kens wha's hand maybe strongest by this time. But God bless the King and the gude auld cause!" continued the old cavalier, draining his tankard.
Drumdryan did the same, adding cautiously,—"The King, whae'er he be!"
"Out upon ye, Laird!" exclaimed Lady Grisel with great asperity. "Wha could he be but his sacred Majesty King James VII., whom I pray the blessed God to counsel wisely and protect."
"'Live and let live' has ever been my maxim, Lady Grisel; but such words may cost ye dear, if the next news frae Berwick be such as I expect," replied the sly laird, drinking with quiet composure.
Rage bristled in every hair of Dalyell's beard, and his eyes glistened like those of a rattlesnake. He could not speak; but the old lady, whose loyalty, fostered by that of the umquhile baronet, was tickled by these observations, brought her chair sharply round, and, striking her long cane emphatically on the floor, said to the shrinking delinquent—
"Shame on ye, Drumdryan!—is your blood turning to water, or what? Gif ye expect bad tidings, it is time that ye donned your buff coat and bandoliers, and had your steed in stall wi' garnissing and holsters. And mair let me tell thee, Sir Laird——but what is that I hear?—singing and mumming, eh? What is it, Simeon?"
"Guisards!" exclaimed Lilian, looking from the window down the snow-covered avenue—"guisards with links glinting and ribbons flaunting. A braw band, in sooth!"
At that moment a faint but merry chorus was heard upon the night wind that rumbled in the wide stone chimney, and a loud knocking rung on the barbican gate.
"Drouthy," said Lady Grisel, "away with ye to the buttery, and get some cogues of ale ready for the loons; and bid Elsie prepare some farls of bannock and cheese, while John the gardener lets them into the barbican, where we will hear them sing. Let twa men keep the door with partisans, that none may cross our threshold. In my time I heard of some foul treachery done by masked faces. Wow but the knaves are impatient," she added, as the knocking was energetically renewed at the outer gate. "And, Drouthy, d'ye hear, take a gude survey of them through the vizzy-hole."
The butler trotted off.