“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.
“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.
“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded [[422]]Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”
“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.
“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.
“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.
“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.
“Sleeping,” answered Roger.
“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.
“Thou art right,” replied Roger.