But Clermistonlee hurried on, and passing the Porte of the Potter's Row, hurried down the steep College Wynd, where picturesque edifices of vast strength and unknown antiquity towered up on each side of the way, and excluded the pale light of the stars. A single ray from a window revealed the rich dresses of two gentlemen who were slowly ascending.
"I insist upon giving you a Kelso convoy, my Lord," said one.
"A devil of a dark night, Laird, especially for a summer one—but I vow to ye, Libberton, that my Lord Perth's claret has cast a glamour oure me."
"Hold up, Balcarris, or ye'll measure your length in the gutter; and that would be a braw place for the Lord High Treasurer to be found in the morning. Thank God, the gate is no a broad ane. I mind when Cromwell, that's now roasting in a pretty hot place—ahoa! who goes there? Draw, Balcarris—it's some spy o' the States-General—a keeper o' conventicles contrary to proclamation. Stand, ye deil's buckie—for King or Covenant?"
"For the King!" cried Clermistonlee; and, irritated by their stopping the narrow way, he unceremoniously tumbled the inebriated laird of Libberton to the right and the Treasurer to the left, as he broke past and hurried into the Cowgate (the ancient comunis via), then the residence of aristocratic exclusives. An old author,* who wrote in the sixteenth century, informs us "that the nobility and chief senators of the city dwell in the Cowgate—via vaccarum in qua habitant patricii et senatores urbis;" and that "the palaces of the chief men of the nation are also there; that none of the houses are mean or vulgar, but, on the contrary, all magnificent—sed omnia magnified."
* Munster Cosmograph, p, 52.
The troubles of Clermistonlee were not yet over. On issuing into the High Street a crowd of tipsy roisterers, young bucks, students, and Life Guards, burst out of Hugh Blair's tavern, with shouts of laughter and drawn swords, ripe for mischief. They beat back the axes of the watch, and joining hands in one long line, danced down the broad street, vociferously chaunting the merry old ditty—
"Now let us drinke,
Till we nod and winke,
Even as good fellows should do;
We shall not misse
To have the blisse
Good wine doth bring men to!"
"Hold fast, my brethren," cried one whom his lordship recognised to be the Reverend Mr. Joram, the famous cavalier chaplain of Dunbarton's Foot. "Hold fast—and every lass we meet must kiss us all from right to left—ay, d—me! or drink a pint of hot sack at one gulp."
"Bravo!" shouted the rest. "Once, twice, thrice, and away!"—and onward they came, hand in hand, dancing and singing with stentorian voices that made the whole street ring. Clermistonlee drew his rapier, and shrunk under the carved arches of those stone arcades which supported the houses on both sides of the way; and, without perceiving him, this crowd of merry fellows passed on to beat the watch and terrify the sleepy denizens of other quarters. Glad of his escape—for he had confidently expected a dangerous brawl—Clermistonlee hurried down Mary King's Close.