"I like ane owle in desert am," &c.
So much did he resemble the feathered type of wisdom, that Walter could scarcely repress a smile.
"Young man, wherefore dost thou not join with me?" asked the divine, raising his black eyebrows and looking at Walter alternately under, over, and through his barnacles.
"Reverend sir, I never sung a Psalm in my life, and really cannot do so now."
"I warrant thou canst sing Claver'se and his Cavaliers, King James's March, Rub-a-Dub, and other profane ditties and camp-songs of thy wicked faction and ungodly profession," said Ichabod reproachfully.
At that moment the deep-mouthed bell of St. Giles, which seemed to swing immediately above their heads, gave one long and sonorous toll.
"It is the first hour of the last morning I shall ever spend on earth!" exclaimed Walter, starting up and striking his fetters together in the bitterness of his soul. "Oh, Lilian, Lilian, how little could we have foreseen of all this!"
He wept.
"'Tis well—no tears can be more precious than these," said Mr. Bummel, who thought his exhortations had begun to prove effectual. "Soon, good youth, shalt thou reach the end of this vale of tears! Lo! thy bride already waiteth thee, and these tears——"
"You deem those of contrition and remorse. They are not. I have done nothing to repent of, or for which I ought to feel contrite. I never wronged man nor woman, though many have wronged me in more than a lifetime can repay. These tears spring only from bitterness and unavailing regret. Have I no hope of pardon? I care not for life, but my king and the son of my king require my services, and could my blood restore them I would die happy. Where is old Sir Thomas Dalyell?"