“Thou didst march into England, then, with the French auxiliaries who came over to St. Johnstoun under Jean de Vian, Comte de Valentinois?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“Ou ay, troth she was with the Frenchmens a long time,” said MacErchar—“Peut Parley Frenchy, hoot ay can she. Fair befall them, they helped to beleaguer and to sack two or three bonny castles. Ugh! what bonny spuilzie! sure, sure!”
He laid his finger with great significancy against his nose, and, having first shut the door, he lifted a brand from the fire, and went to one end of the apartment. There he removed a parcel of faggots that lay carelessly heaped up against the wall, and, lifting a rude frame of wattle that was beneath them, uncovered an excavation in the earthen floor, from which he brought out a massive silver flagon, one or two small silver mazers, and several other pieces of valuable spoil; and besides these, he produced [[179]]a plain black bugle-horn, and two or three coarse swords and daggers.
“Troth she would not show them to everybody,” said he; “but she be’s an honourable knight, and Sir Patrick’s son;—she hath no fear to show the bonny things to her. But she has not had them out for mony a day syne.”
Hepborne bestowed due admiration on those well-earned fruits of Master Duncan MacErchar’s military hardships and dangers. Though of less actual value to the owner than the wooden vessel from which he had so liberally dealt out his hospitable cup at meeting, yet there was something noble in the pride he took in showing them. It was evident that the glory of the manner of their acquisition gave them their chief value in his eyes; for it was not those of most intrinsic worth that were estimated the highest by him.
“See this,” said he, lifting the plain black bugle-horn; “this be the best prize of them all. She took this hersel off a loon that fought and tuilzied with her hand to hand; but troth she tumbled him at the hinder-end of the bicker. Fye, fye, but he was a sorrowful mockel stout loon.—This swords, an’ this daggers, were all ta’en off the loons she killed with her nain hand.—But uve, uve! she maunna be tellin’ on her, though troth she needna fear Sir Patrick Hepborne’s son. But if some of the folks in these parts heard of these things, uve, uve! they wouldna be long here.”
Saying this, he hastily restored the articles of spoil to the grave that had held them, and putting down the wattle over them, he threw back the billets into a careless heap against the wall.
“Thy treasure is so great, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, “that thou art doubtless satisfied, and wilt never again tempt thy fate in the field?”
“Hoot toot!” cried MacErchar, “troth she’ll be there again or lang; she maun see more o’ the Southrons yet or she dies. But uve, uve! what for is there nothing for her to eat?”
He then burst out in a torrent of eloquence in his own language, which soon brought his ragged attendants about him, and the best that he could afford was put on a table before Sir Patrick and the page. Cakes made of rough ground oatmeal, milk, cheese, butter, steaks of deer’s flesh, with various other viands, with abundance of ale, appeared in rapid succession, and both knight and page feasted admirably after their day’s exercise. Hepborne insisted on their host sitting down and partaking with them, which he did immediately, with a degree [[180]]of independent dignity that impressed Sir Patrick yet more strongly in his favour.