“Captain MacErchar, and you most worthy esquires, Masters Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel, yea, and you, brave Robin Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, and the rest, who are nobly ettling to rise by your deeds as others hae done afore ye—ahem—panting after that most honourable honour and dignified dignity of an esquire, I do hereby invite ye all to go down wi’ me to the baggage-camp and sutlerages, whaur we may find comfortable and cozy houf in a braw new bigget sodden hostel, yereckit for the accommodation o’ Dame Margaret MacCleareye’s yill-barrels and yill-customers, and there, at my proper expense, to eat the bit supper I bid her prepare as I came up the hill, and to drink till ye hae weel wet the honours, the which, descending on mine unworthy head from the gallant Hotspur (whose health we shall not fail to drink, albeit we may yet hope to hae the cleaving o’ his skull), have been approven of by our noble Lord of Douglas, and by mine especial dear Lord of [[444]]Moray, for both of whom we are not only bound to drink to the dead, but to fight to the dead.”
“Oich, hoich, Maister Spears, surely, surely—he, he, he!” cried MacErchar.
“Bravo, Master Spears, I shall willingly go with thy squireship,” cried Sang; “nay, and never trust me an I do not my best honour to thine entertainment.”
“Squire Spears, I am thine,” cried Roger Riddel; and the rest all heartily joining in ready acquiescence in his invitation, they followed Rory joyously down the hill in a body.
CHAPTER LIX.
The Battle at Otterbourne.
Rory Spears was presiding with joyous countenance over the supper to which he had invited his friends—the more solid part of the entertainment had been discussed—and the ale jug had already performed several revolutions, to the great refreshment and restoration of the strength of those who partook of it, when the jovial companions were suddenly disturbed in their revelry by a very unusual cry from some of the sentinels posted along the line of entrenchment that protected the baggage-camp. The hilarious esquires and men-at-arms were silenced in the midst of their mirth, and sat looking at one another with eyes of inquiry. But they sat not long so, for the cry was repeated, and ran rapidly along the chain of sentinels.
“By St. Lowry, it’s the English, as I’m a Christian man!” cried Rory Spears. “My troth, it was maist ceevil of the chields to wait till we had souped; natheless, it erketh me to think that they carried not their courtesy so far as to permit us to drink but ae ither can. Yet, by the Rood, we shall have at it. Here, Mrs. MacCleareye—d’ye hear, guidwife?”
“Phut, tut!—oich, hoich!—fye, fye, let us awa, Maister Spears,” cried Duncan MacErchar. “Troth, she’ll no wait for us, the Southron loons.”