“I seek a sprig of a lad,” said the seeming gallant, “with a sprig of holly in his cap, black hair, and black eyes, green jacket, and the air of a country coxcomb—I have sought him through every close and alley in the Canongate, the fiend gore him!”
“Why, God-a-mercy, Nun!” muttered Roland Graeme, much bewildered.
“I will inquire him presently out for your fair young worship,” said the wench of the inn.
“Do,” said the gallant squire, “and if you bring me to him, you shall have a groat to-night, and a kiss on Sunday when you have on a cleaner kirtle.”
“Why, God-a-mercy, Nun!” again muttered Roland, “this is a note above E La.”
In a moment after, the servant entered the room, and ushered in the object of his surprise.
While the disguised vestal looked with unabashed brow, and bold and rapid glance of her eye, through the various parties in the large old room, Roland Graeme, who felt an internal awkward sense of bashful confusion, which he deemed altogether unworthy of the bold and dashing character to which he aspired, determined not to be browbeaten and put down by this singular female, but to meet her with a glance of recognition so sly, so penetrating, so expressively humorous, as should show her at once he was in possession of her secret and master of her fate, and should compel her to humble herself towards him, at least into the look and manner of respectful and deprecating observance.
This was extremely well planned; but just as Roland had called up the knowing glance, the suppressed smile, the shrewd intelligent look, which was to ensure his triumph, he encountered the bold, firm, and steady gaze of his brother or sister-page, who, casting on him a falcon glance, and recognizing him at once as the object of his search, walked up with the most unconcerned look, the most free and undaunted composure, and hailed him with “You, Sir Holly-top, I would speak with you.”
The steady coolness and assurance with which these words were uttered, although the voice was the very voice he had heard at the old convent, and although the features more nearly resembled those of Catharine when seen close than when viewed from a distance, produced, nevertheless, such a confusion in Roland's mind, that he became uncertain whether he was not still under a mistake from the beginning; the knowing shrewdness which should have animated his visage faded into a sheepish bashfulness, and the half-suppressed but most intelligible smile, became the senseless giggle of one who laughs to cover his own disorder of ideas.
“Do they understand a Scotch tongue in thy country, Holly-top?” said this marvellous specimen of metamorphosis. “I said I would speak with thee.”