Dame Robson covered the hearth with a huge fire; and her husband bringing in a leg of beef, set it upon the table, and bade every one help himself.
"The words of thy mouth are exceeding good, and sweet unto the ear," said the friar, "as doubtless thy food is to the taste." With that he rose and helped himself to three nice and extensive slices of raw beef, and these he roasted on the tongs which he had just lifted to smite the poet on the head.
In good truth, though every one cooked his own supper, as was the fashion of that iron time, there was none did it half so nicely as the friar, nor so bunglingly as Jordan, whose supper, though long behind the others in being ready, was so unshapely a piece, and so raw on the one side, that the friar observed, "it was like Ephraim of old, as a cake unturned." Some roasted their meat on old swords, some on spindles, for their hosts took no heed how they were fitted, or in what manner they shifted in these respects; seemingly satisfied that they had plenty for the cooking, and leaving them to cook it or eat it raw, as they chose. The poet made haste, and, first of all, cooked two or three nice slices for the maiden, giving her what she would take before he would taste a morsel himself. Some commended him for this, and others jeered him; but the friar, in his grave moral style, said the severest things of all. From the very commencement of the journey, a jealousy or misunderstanding began to subsist between these two, which never again subsided till they came to blows.
The poet answered him again with a song:
"Keep ye to your books and your beads, goodman,
Your Ave Marias and creeds, goodman;
For gin ye end as ye're begun,
There will be some crack of your deeds, goodman."
At length the party retired to rest, all save Jordan and their worthy host. The latter never slept in the night; he had always some watching, walking, or work in hand that suited that season best: and as for Gibby, he determined to sit up all night to watch that the poet made no encroachments on the place of Delany's repose. Robson encouraged his purpose, joined him heartily in conversation, listened to his long-winded stories with apparent delight, and, when all the rest were asleep, wormed the whole business of the embassy out of the shallow laird, who unfortunately testified his fears that they were carrying the lovely maiden and boy to the old warlock to be a sacrifice to the devil. Robson appeared terribly confounded at this peace of intelligence,—for from the time that he heard it he conversed no more with Jordan. About one in the morning he began to put on his snow-boots, as if preparing for a journey.
"Where are ye going at this time of night?" enquired the laird.
"I maun gang out an' see how the night wears," said Robson; "I hae sax score o' Scots queys that are outlyers. If I let the king's ellwand ower the hill, I'll hae them to seek frae the kips o' Kale."
Gibby accompanied him to the door, hoping the king's ellwand would not be over the hill, for he had no good will to part with his companion. But as soon as Robson turned his eye to the sky, "Ha, gude faith, I maun post away!" said he, "Yonder's the king's ellwand already begun to bore the hill; ay, there's ane o' the goud knobs out o' sight already, an' I hear the queys rowting ower the waterfa' o' the height. Gude morrow t'ye, laird, I'm ower lang here."
Gibby returned in to the blazing fire; and hearing so many persons all snoring in sleep, he caught the infection, stretched himself upon a divot seat, and joined the chorus with as much zeal as any of them.