"Well, friar, thou'st the weathergage of us, and knowest our rank and rating now; but what would the Lord Drummond with us?" asked Barton.
"Step a little this way; what I have to tell must not be overheard," said the friar, drawing them a few paces from the boat.
"Sir David Falconer, you love the Lord Drummond's daughter, Sybilla?"
Falconer was silent, for the sound of that beloved name made his heart leap under his cuirass.
"And you, Robert Barton, love her sister, Euphemia?"
"Silence, friar!" said Barton, angrily; "what hast thou to do with this?"
"Thus much, that the Lord Drummond, the High Steward of Strathearn, sent me to say, that if you will make the admiral prisoner, seize his ships, and deliver them to the lords, ye yet win your brides; but refuse, and you shall never see them more."
"Villain monk, thou liest!—the Lord Drummond is a gentleman!" said Falconer, furiously.
"He is more," said the monk, sneeringly; "he is a Scottish noble."
"In that word noble lies a world of treason," said Barton; "but he was wise to send a priest on this infernal mission, for with this axe I had cloven a layman to the chine."