“You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, “and supply by your filial attentions the offspring she has had the ill luck to lose.”
“I will remain, at least, to help you to prepare her night's lair, pretty Catherine,” said Roland, seizing upon a pitch-fork.
“By no means,” said Catherine; “for, besides that you know not in the least how to do her that service, you will bring a chiding my way, and I get enough of that in the regular course of things.”
“What! for accepting my assistance?” said the page,—“for accepting my assistance, who am to be your confederate in some deep matter of import? That were altogether unreasonable—and, now I think on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty emprise to which I am destined?”
“Robbing a bird's nest, I should suppose,” said Catherine, “considering the champion whom they have selected.”
“By my faith,” said the youth, “and he that has taken a falcon's nest in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done something to brag of, my fair sister.—But that is all over now—a murrain on the nest, and the eyases and their food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of cramming these worthless kites that I was sent upon my present travels. Save that I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. But, as we are to be fellow-travellers—”
“Fellow-labourers! not fellow-travellers!” answered the girl; “for to your comfort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier than you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that I partly endure your company at present, because it may be long ere we meet again.”
“By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though,” answered Roland; “I will not hunt at all unless we are to hunt in couples.”
“I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as we are bid,” replied the young lady.—“But, hark! I hear my aunt's voice.”
The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a severe glance at her niece, while Roland had the ready wit to busy himself about the halter of the cow.