"Will kindle a blaze through all Scotland."
"Art thou sure of this?" asked Shaw, with a grim joy that was blended with incredulity and contempt.
"Let the deed show."
"Hew Borthwick," said the traitor Shaw, "I know thee to be subtle as that serpent which of old beguiled our mother Eve. I know thee to love money, even as thine own soul, and I swear to thee by my part of Paradise, that if thy boasted letter achieves the promised end, thou shalt have, not one, but three of my best tenements in the Broad Wynd of Stirling, held of the Burgh by an armed man's service."
"'Tis a bargain; and thou, Sir Patrick Gray, art witness," said Borthwick, rising with joy beaming in his atrocious countenance.
"In that inner chamber are pens, parchment, and wax," said Gray; "away to thy clerking, for here come the Lord Angus and his friends."
As Borthwick retired to compose one of the most villanous forgeries ever made by a traitor's hand—unless we except the contents of that silver casket so famous in the history of Mary, or some of the letters of Secretary Stair,—a train of brilliant horsemen rode up the ascent to Broughty, and dismounted in the paved barbican.
CHAPTER XV.
CONCLAVE OF MALCONTENTS.
Sir Penny owre all gets the gree,
Both in burgh and citie,
In castle and in tower;
Withouten either spear or shield,
He is the best by firth or field,
And stalwartest in stowre.
Money, an old Ballad.