“But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Murray.
“It may be so; but Julian was an outlaying striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.”
“Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk—Here, thou Hyndman—thou curiosity,” calling to the usher, who now entered,—“conduct this youth to his companion—You will both,” he said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.”—And then motioning to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up the interview.
Chapter the Nineteenth.
It is and is not—'tis the thing I sought for,
Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame and life for,
And yet it is not—no more than the shadow
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror,
Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance
Which it presents in form and lineament.
OLD PLAY.
The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly acquainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace's farther orders; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station,—instructions which Adam Woodcock's old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand—“For your beds,” he said, “you must go to the hostelry of Saint Michael's, in respect the palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.”
No sooner was the usher's back turned than Adam exclaimed with all the glee of eager curiosity, “And now, Master Roland, the news—the news—come unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings—What says the Regent? asks he for Adam Woodcock?—and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?”
“All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “and for the rest—But, hey-day, what! have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet?”