"Good-morrow, Master Borthwick," added Shaw, whose incessant intoxication was quite visible, even in the dark.
Both were well armed in cuirasses, gorgets, and plate sleeves, with swords and daggers in their belts, and they bore on their heads French salades which completely concealed their faces, forming at the same time a defence which no sword could cleave or pole-axe break.
"You have good tidings, I opine, sir," said Gray.
"Alas! what leads you to infer so?"
"Your keeping tryst so faithfully," said he, again.
"Is this troublesome dame disposed of?" asked his companion, with a hiccup.
"To-morrow will tell—"
"To-morrow, and why to-morrow?" demanded Shaw, angrily.
"God's death, fellow! have we ridden a matter of seventy miles, from the Mauchline Tower to the Brig of Dunblane, only to hear this?"
"Hear me, sirs, and be patient," said Borthwick, who, to their astonishment, seemed to be as crushed in spirit as he was pale in face and trembling in speech; "I have essayed a hundred modes of obtaining access to the Bishop's palace, that I might reach Dame Margaret's room, which is in the north-east corner thereof, for I know every nook and cranny of that house of old, as if it were my own."