"But I have heard you say, goodman," replied David Henderson's better-half, who—the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar into its place—was still detained in her situation of candle-holder, "that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's descending from his vantage-ground."
"True, goodwife," said David; "but was not his doing so but a means of fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about else?"
The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late, retired to bed.
In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining river on the blast as it boiled and raged along.
Henderson had been in bed about an hour—it was now midnight—but had been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently jogging his slumbering helpmate—
"Goodwife," he said, "listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of some one shouting without?"
They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon distinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.
In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the door, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the exclamations of—"Ho! within there! house, house!" gave intimation that the rider sought admittance.
"Who can this be?" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying—
"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit visitors. Who can tell who they may be?"