“I thought the holly-branch in your bonnet had been blighted, Master Roland?” said one of the men-at-arms.
“Only pinched with half an hour's frost; you see it flourishes as green as ever.”
“It is too grave a plant to flourish on so hot a soil as that headpiece of thine, Master Roland Graeme,” retorted the other, who was an old equerry of Sir Halbert Glendinning.
“If it will not flourish alone,” said Roland, “I will mix it with the laurel and the myrtle—and I will carry them so near the sky, that it shall make amends for their stinted growth.”
Thus speaking, he dashed his spurs into his horse's sides, and, checking him at the same time, compelled him to execute a lofty caracole. Sir Halbert Glendinning looked at the demeanour of his new attendant with that sort of melancholy pleasure with which those who have long followed the pursuits of life, and are sensible of their vanity, regard the gay, young, and buoyant spirits to whom existence, as yet, is only hope and promise.
In the meanwhile, Adam Woodcock, the falconer, stripped of his masquing habit, and attired, according to his rank and calling, in a green jerkin, with a hawking-bag on the one side, and a short hanger on the other, a glove on his left hand which reached half way up his arm, and a bonnet and feather upon his head, came after the party as fast as his active little galloway-nag could trot, and immediately entered into parley with Roland Graeme.
“So, my youngster, you are once more under shadow of the holly-branch?”
“And in case to repay you, my good friend,” answered Roland, “your ten groats of silver.”
“Which, but an hour since,” said the falconer, “you had nearly paid me with ten inches of steel. On my faith, it is written in the book of our destiny, that I must brook your dagger after all.”
“Nay, speak not of that, my good friend,” said the youth, “I would rather have broached my own bosom than yours; but who could have known you in the mumming dress you wore?”