"Waldstein! Man! Waldstein! Duke of Friedland and the haill rickmatick!"
"Waldstein!" said Nigel. "Here? Waldstein?"
"Aye! He's studying the stars, he and his warlock. He's naething else to do. He's just a spent cannon-ball: good iron but useless. Speiring at the stars will he come back again or no, and speiring at Gustavus of Sweden whether he'll give him all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, if he falls doon and worships him."
"How do you know that he sends letters to Gustavus? Or what is in them?"
"Is it sae unlikely?" the other questioned cunningly. "I could believe onything of a Popish recusant! Waldstein was born a Protestant of good Lutheran parents, and ganged to a Protestant University—Altdorf—and then he wins clean over to the Papists. Noo I'm not saying onything against Papistry, though I dinna believe in it mysel', but ye come of a Catholic family and have never known the truth. I peety but I dinna blame!"
"I am your very humble servant, Mr Gordon," said Nigel, bowing. "I am in need of food and lodgment. Good-bye!"
Nigel took horse again and rode down into the town, pondering many things.
At the foot of the hill he met Sergeant Blick.
"The sorrel horse, captain, is in a stable at the White Lamb."