The knocking at the gate recalled his thoughts.
"'Sdeath!" said he, "who dares to knock so loud and late? Ha! it may be a macer of council; we have had no news from London for these fourteen days past. Now, by all the devils, who can this be?"
A person was heard ascending the stair, and singing in a very cracked voice the Old Hundredth Psalm. Clermistonlee started, and looked around for a cane, marvelling who dared to insult him in his own house. A psalm! he could hardly believe his ears.
"Pshaw!" said he, recognising the voice, as Juden ushered in Lord Mersington, who entered unsteadily, balancing himself on each leg alternately: his broad hat was awry, and his wig gone; but a silk handkerchief tied round his head supplied its place. The learned senator was in one of his usual altitudes.
"How now, gossip!" said Clermistonlee, impatiently; "whence this unwonted piety?"
"Out upon thee, son of Belial! Dost not see that the Spirit is strong within me?"
"Rather too plainly; but sit down, man—thy tankard of burnt sack hath grown cold. Juden prepares it nightly quite as a matter of course. Any news from our army yet?"
"None—none," replied the other, shaking his head with tipsy solemnity; "but if matters go on as they seem likely to do, I maun een change, Randal, or the grassy holms and bonnie mains o' Mersington will gang to the deil before me; and I'll hae my canting hizzie o' a wife back frae the west country to deave me wi' ranting psalms and declaring against the crying sin o' the Mass, Papacy, Prelacy, Arianism, and a' the rest o't." A glance of deep meaning accompanied this.
"And I, to mend my fortune, must fly my hawks more surely. Bongré, malgré, Lilian Napier must become Lady Clermistonlee, or my lord of that ilk must boune him for another land."
"Hee, hee!—and you are fairly tired o' following mad Mally Charteris, Maud o' Madertie, and my Lady Jean Gordon—hee, hee!"