“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.
They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon found themselves in its simple street.
“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note of thine approach?”
“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered forward.
“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth, Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr. Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers? Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it were an honour to undo the spur?” [[23]]
By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen, and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different tables.
“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang, although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when it be called for than thou hast.”
“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle. “But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”
“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou mayest perchance lose them.”
“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,” replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck, the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for ye all.”