"Or Michael Scott of Balwearie," said Home.
"Blackcastle, blow thy bugle," said his chief, "and we'll crop the gate-ward's ears if they hear it not."
"Woe to the loitering villain!" grumbled Home.
"His gudewife will be keeping him a-bed," said the other lord; "and perhaps the poor man dare not rise."
"I have heard that the grey mare is the better horse here," said Blackcastle, as he blew a startling blast; "and I have seen good proof that the poor gate-ward is only Joan Tamson's man, as the saw hath it."
"How——"
"The rosemary sprig borne at their wedding now flourishes in his kail-yard, like a green bay-tree."
"The drowsy rascal; I'll strew its branches on his coffin board. Blow again!"
Once more Blackcastle poured the notes of his horn to the wind; and as the echoes mingled with the roaring of the river and the moaning of the trees, that low wailing cry, so chilling to their hearts, was heard again; and now lights began to twinkle in the warder's cottage.
"Pest upon thee, villain!" said Borthwick; "while we are detained here, our birds may indeed be flown from Loretto. He ought to know 'tis no ordinary errand that bringeth men abroad in weather such as this."