“And narrowly escaped the consequences, you would say?” answered Claverhouse—“why, I will answer you frankly. Then I thought I had to do with the son of an old roundheaded rebel, and the nephew of a sordid presbyterian laird; now I know your points better, and there is that about you which I respect in an enemy as much as I like in a friend. I have learned a good deal concerning you since our first meeting, and I trust that you have found that my construction of the information has not been unfavourable to you.”
“But yet,” said Morton—
“But yet,” interrupted Grahame, taking up the word, “you would say you were the same when I first met you that you are now? True; but then, how could I know that? though, by the by, even my reluctance to suspend your execution may show you how high your abilities stood in my estimation.”
“Do you expect, General,” said Morton, “that I ought to be particularly grateful for such a mark of your esteem?”
“Poh! poh! you are critical,” returned Claverhouse. “I tell you I thought you a different sort of person. Did you ever read Froissart?”
“No,” was Morton’s answer.
“I have half a mind,” said Claverhouse, “to contrive you should have six months’ imprisonment in order to procure you that pleasure. His chapters inspire me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself. And the noble canon, with what true chivalrous feeling he confines his beautiful expressions of sorrow to the death of the gallant and high-bred knight, of whom it was a pity to see the fall, such was his loyalty to his king, pure faith to his religion, hardihood towards his enemy, and fidelity to his lady-love!—Ah, benedicite! how he will mourn over the fall of such a pearl of knighthood, be it on the side he happens to favour, or on the other. But, truly, for sweeping from the face of the earth some few hundreds of villain churls, who are born but to plough it, the high-born and inquisitive historian has marvellous little sympathy,—as little, or less, perhaps, than John Grahame of Claverhouse.”
“There is one ploughman in your possession, General, for whom,” said Morton, “in despite of the contempt in which you hold a profession which some philosophers have considered as useful as that of a soldier, I would humbly request your favour.”
“You mean,” said Claverhouse, looking at a memorandum book, “one Hatherick—Hedderick—or—or—Headrigg. Ay, Cuthbert, or Cuddie Headrigg—here I have him. O, never fear him, if he will be but tractable. The ladies of Tillietudlem made interest with me on his account some time ago. He is to marry their waiting-maid, I think. He will be allowed to slip off easy, unless his obstinacy spoils his good fortune.”
“He has no ambition to be a martyr, I believe,” said Morton.