“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”
“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”
“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.
At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.
“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”
“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I [[424]]drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”
“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.
“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”
It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.