“Is’t not hard, think ye, that an honest man cannot be left to enjoy his evening’s ease undisturbed? I was but drinking a draught of ale, Master Harbuttle.”
“A draught of ale,” replied Harbuttle; “ay, something more than one draught, I take it, Master Thomas. But what makest thou with a torch in such a moonshiny night as this?”
“Moonshiny,” cried Turnberry, hiccuping; “moonshiny, indeed, why, ’tis as dark as a pit well. Fye, fye, Mr. Harbuttle, thou must have been drinking—thou must have been drinking, I say, since thou hast so much fire in thine eyes; for, to a sober, quiet, cool-headed man like myself, Master Harbuttle, the moon is not yet up. Fye, fye, thou hast been taking a cup of Master Sylvester Kyle’s tipple. ’Tis an abominable vice that thou hast fallen into; drink will be the ruin of thee.”
“Thou drunken sot, thou,” exclaimed Harbuttle, laughing, “dost not see the moon there, over the top of the keep?”
“That the moon!” cried Turnberry, holding up his torch as if to look for it; “well, well, to see now what drink will do—what an ass it will make of a sensible man; for, to give the devil his due, thou art no gnoffe when thou art sober, Master Harbuttle. That the moon! Why, that’s the lamp burning in Ancient Fenwick’s loophole window. Thou knowest he is always at his books—always at the black art. St. Cuthbert defend us from his incantations!”
“Amen!” said the squire usher, fervently crossing himself.
“But what a fiend’s this?” cried Turnberry; “here are two horses, one black and t’other white. I see that well enow, though thou mayn’t, yet thou would’st persuade me I don’t know [[38]]the Wizard Ancient’s lamp from the moon. Give me hold of the reins.”
But as he stretched forth his hand to take them, he toppled over and fell sprawling among the horses’ feet, whence he was opportunely relieved by two of his own grooms, who arrived at that moment.
“Where hast thou been idling, varlets?” demanded Turnberry, as he endeavoured to steady himself, and assume the proper importance of authority; “drinking, varlets, drinking, I’ll be sworn—John Barleycorn will be the overthrow of Norham Castle. See, villains, that ye bestow these steeds in good litters, and that oats are not awanting. I’ll e’en return to my evening’s repose.”
At this moment the lady, followed by Adam of Gordon, came suddenly upon the group from a narrow gateway, at the bottom of a flight of steps that led from the rampart, and were close upon Hepborne and his friend before they perceived the two knights. The lady drew back at first from surprise, and seemed to hesitate for an instant whether she would advance or not. She pulled her hood so far over her face as to render it only partially visible; but the flame of Master Turnberry’s torch had flashed on it ere she did so, and Hepborne was ravished by the momentary glance he had of her beauty. The lady, on the other hand, had a full view of Sir Patrick’s features, for his vizor was up. The minstrel immediately recognized him.