“I am right glad that thou hast so determined, Juliet,” said Rogers. “I have no jealousy of this well-born knight, who hath, moreover, a greater feeling for the divine art of music than any of his cold countrymen with whom I have yet met, without even excepting Royalty itself. But I might as well see thee built up into a stone wall, as see thee the wife of Cochran! To see thy great musical genius tied to this most unmelodious and croaking chisseler of stones, and compounder of lime, sand, and cow’s-hair! I quaver at the very thought! But get thee to bed, my girl. Now that I know my ground-notes, I shall wonder if I work thee not out a piece that shall not only win thee this instrument of thy more recent desires, but enable thee to play upon it too, according as thou wilt, with thine own variations.”
Whilst this precious conversation was going on between the uncle and niece, Sir Walter Stewart gave the convoy to Ramsay as far as the Royal Castle-gate, after which he returned towards his hostel. As he was pursuing his solitary way thither, he heard the clashing of swords; and, on moving quickly down the deserted street, he discovered, by the faint light that came from a new moon, two men pressing hard in fence against one, who was defending himself with great courage, with his back to a wall. Though he had no knowledge of the combatants, he could not stand by and see such foul play.
“For shame! for shame, gentlemen!” cried he. “What! two upon one!”
“Gentlemen, indeed!” cried he that was assailed, in a contemptuous tone, during the moment of breathing afforded him by Sir Walter’s interference—“Gentlemen indeed!—Tailors and scaramouches, else am I not the Earl of Huntly!”
“Again dost thou dare so to miscal the gentlemen of the court of his most Royal Majesty of Scotland?” cried one of the individuals, whom Sir Walter immediately discovered to be the pot-valiant Torfefan. “By all the gods of fire, thunder, and battle, thou shalt eat this good bilboa of mine. Have at thee, then, earl, or carl, or devil, if thou likest it!”
“Nay, then, my Lord of Huntly, I will myself relieve thee of this bold bird,” cried the knight; “do thou deal with the other.”
“Thanks for thy rescue, Sir Walter Stewart,” replied Huntly, now recognizing his friend. “But thou hast left naught to me but the very shred of the skirt of the garment of this broil—the vile cabbage—the very tailor himself.”
“Trust me, thy man, though but the ninth-part of one, is as good as mine,” replied Sir Walter.
The combat was now renewed upon fairer terms, and, in a few moments, Torfefan’s sword was sent spinning into the air, and, falling from its flight, it rang upon the stones of the causeway, and was shivered into pieces, whilst its owner was prostrated on his back by his over-anxiety to withdraw from the fury of his adversary’s onset. Sir Walter’s sword-point was immediately at his throat; and, at that very moment the weapon of his noble ally had pierced a fleshy part of his opponent, as he had turned to run away, which act of discretion, however, it did not prevent, for it rather pricked him on to a more active exertion of speed.
