"Who is more studious than Carneades!" said the Bernardin.
"More versatile than Alcibiades!" said Montaigu.
"More subtle than Averroës!" cried Harcourt.
"More mystical than Plotinus!" said one of the Four Nations.
"More visionary than Artemidorus!" said Cluny.
"More infallible than the Pope!" added Lemoine.
"And who pretends to dispute de omni scibili," shouted the Spaniard.
"Et quolibet ente!! added the Sorbonist.
"Mine ears are stunned with your vociferations," replied the Scot. "You ask me who James Crichton is, and yourselves give the response. You have mockingly said he is a rara avis; a prodigy of wit and learning: and you have unintentionally spoken the truth. He is so. But I will tell you that of him of which you are wholly ignorant, or which you have designedly overlooked. His condition is that of a Scottish gentleman of high rank. Like your Spanish grandee, he need not doff his cap to kings. On either side hath he the best of blood in his veins. His mother was a Stuart directly descended from that regal line. His father, who owneth the fair domains of Eliock and Cluny, was Lord Advocate to our bonny and luckless Mary (whom Heaven assoilzie!) and still holds his high office. Methinks the Lairds of Crichton might have been heard of here. Howbeit, they are well known to me, who being an Ogilvy of Balfour, have often heard tell of a certain contract or obligation, whereby--"
"Basta!" interrupted the Spaniard, "heed not thine own affairs, worthy Scot. Tell us of this Crichton--ha!"