[Chapter V.]
Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried—
“Prepare ye all for blows and blood!
Wat Tinlinn, from the Liddle-side,
Comes wading through the flood.”
—Lay of the Last Minstrel.
WHEN our two road-companions left their pallets and returned to the kitchen or main-room of the cottage, the goodwife was setting out materials for breakfast. The windows were wide open, admitting the fresh breath of dewy morn to purify and sweeten the atmosphere that had pervaded the domicile during the night. Early as was the hour, the village was astir for the labours and duties of the new day, and the horn of the cowherd who was driving the “milky mothers” to the pastures—the singing of birds—the cawing of rooks—and the ceaseless babble of the burn—formed a medley of sounds right cheerful to hear. With fair appetite our wayfarers attacked the viands spread before them; but ere they had finished their repast a sudden clamouring of tongues and a trampling of horses made them pause and listen. Am I pursued? thought Eustace—or, as we shall now call him, Ruthven Somervil—and he and his companion rose, and going to a window, saw a band of armed troopers riding slowly through the village, their appearance causing a general commotion among its denizens. But at the first glance our hero satisfied himself that the strangers were not retainers of Hawksglen.
The better to observe the party, Harthill and the old host went out to the door, but Ruthven remained at the window. The horsemen were seven in number, jackmen or retainers of Laird or Baron. All wore strong leathern “jacks” or doublets; iron bascinet caps or round helmets with cheek plates, but no visors; and heavy jack boots with large spurs. They were armed, after the usual fashion, with spears, swords, and daggers—the spears being of the enormous length of nearly six ells, according to the regulation in the Act of the Scottish Parliament of 2nd April, 1481. The foremost rider, the apparent leader of the party, wore, in the front of his bascinet, a few sprigs of the golden broom, which Ruthven knew was the cognizance or badge of Gilbert Lauder, a grasping and restless laird, whose Peel was a number of miles distant.