“Sir Walter,” said Hepborne, taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, “the fame of thy peerless daughter, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, hath reached our ears: Shall our eyes not be blessed with the sight of so much beauty? May we not look to see thy board graced with her presence ere the night passeth away?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Sir Walter, his countenance undergoing a remarkable change from gay to grave, “my daughter appeareth not to-night. But why is not the minstrel here?” exclaimed he aloud, as if wishing to get rid of Hepborne’s farther questioning; “why is not Adam of Gordon introduced? Let him come in; I love the old man’s music too well to leave him neglected. Yea, and of a truth, he doth to-night merit a double share of our regard, seeing that it is to him we do owe the honour of these distinguished Scottish guests. A chair for the minstrel, I say.”
A chair was accordingly set in a conspicuous place near the end of the hall. Adam entered, with his harp hanging on his arm, and, making an obeisance to the company, advanced towards the top of the table.
“Ay, ay, come away, old man; no music without wine; generous wine will breed new inspiration in thee: Here, drink,” said Sir Walter, presenting him with the mantling cup.
The minstrel bowed, and, drinking health to the good company, [[42]]he quaffed it off. His tardy blood seemed quickened by the draught; he hastened to seat himself in the place appointed for him; and, striking two or three chords to ascertain the state of his instrument, he proceeded to play several airs of a martial character.
“Come, come, good Adam, that is very well,” said Sir Walter, as the harper paused to rest his fingers awhile—“so far thou hast done well; but my good wine must not ooze out at the points of thy fingers with unmeaning sounds. Come, we must have it mount to thy brain, and fill thee with inspiration. Allons! Come, drink again, and let the contents of this cup evaporate from thee in verse. Here, bear this brimming goblet to him: And then, dost thou hear, some tale of hardy dints of arms; ’tis that we look for. Nay, fear not for my Lord Bishop; I wot he hath worn the cuirass ere now.”
“Thou sayest truly, Sir Walter,” said the Bishop, rearing himself up to his full height, as if gratified by the remark; “on these our Eastern Marches there are few who have not tasted of war, however peaceful may have been their profession; and I cannot say but I have done my part, thanks be to Him who hath given me strength and courage.”
Adam quaffed off the contents of the cup that had been given him, and, seizing his harp again, he flourished a prelude, during which he kept his eyes thrown upwards, as if wrapt in consideration of his subject, and then dashed the chords from his fingers in a powerful accompaniment to the following verses:—
THE TOURNEY OF NOYON.
Proud was the bearing of fair Noyon’s chivalry,