“It is right well imagined,” said Catherine, “and shows an argute judgment. Do you begin, and I will listen, and only put in a question or two at the dark parts of the story. Come, unfold then your name and history, my new acquaintance.”
“I am called Roland Graeme, and that tall woman is my grandmother.”
“And your tutoress?—good. Who are your parents?”
“They are both dead,” replied Roland.
“Ay, but who were they? you had parents, I presume?”
“I suppose so,” said Roland, “but I have never been able to learn much of their history. My father was a Scottish knight, who died gallantly in his stirrups—my mother was a Graeme of Hathergill, in the Debateable Land—most of her family were killed when the Debateable country was burned by Lord Maxwell and Herries of Caerlaverock.”
“Is it long ago?” said the damsel.
“Before I was born,” answered the page.
“That must be a great while since,” said she, shaking her head gravely; “look you, I cannot weep for them.”
“It needs not,” said the youth, “they fell with honour.”