“Ruthven Somervil,” returned Eustace, without hesitation, having previously decided on that adoption. The surname was an honourable one on the Border, and had been so since the legendary times when an early Somervil killed a serpent or dragon that kept its lair in a wild glen of Linton parish in Roxburghshire—as the old rhyme commemorates:
The wode Laird of Laristone
Slew the worm of Worm’s Glen,
And wan all Linton parochine.
“But,” added Eustace, “you need repeat the name to nobody.”
The cottagers greeted the gaberlunzie with kindly welcome; and the dress of Eustace bespoke for him a respectful reception, no one seeming to know who or what he was. A grey-headed sire and his dame invited the travellers into their dwelling. Homely viands were set before them, of which they partook with relish—Eustace being served apart. When the meal was over, neighbours came in, and solicited Willie to sing them some of his stock of songs. He complied, and a full supply of nappy liquor being procured at Eustace’s expense,
The nicht drave on wi’ sangs an clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better.
When the jovial company broke up, the aged host showed Eustace into a closet, furnished with a couch, and then bade the gaberlunzie ascend by a trap-stair to the loft above, where he would find a sleeping place. Eustace stretched himself on his couch, and slumber speedily overtook him. He slept soundly until the morning sun, beaming on his face, awoke him from strange dreams.