“I have often thought so myself,” said Bucklaw. “I believe it would be safer than acting with you in the Fatal Conspiracy. But away, play your own part, and look after the horses like a groom as you are. A play-actor—a stage-player!” he repeated to himself; “that would have deserved a stab, but that Craigengelt’s a coward. And yet I should like the profession well enough. Stay, let me see; ay, I would come out in Alexander:
Thus from the grave I rise to save my love,
Draw all your swords, and quick as lightning move.
When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay:
’Tis love commands, and glory leads the way.”
As with a voice of thunder, and his hand upon his sword, Bucklaw repeated the ranting couplets of poor Lee, Craigengelt re-entered with a face of alarm.
“We are undone, Bucklaw! The Master’s led horse has cast himself over his halter in the stable, and is dead lame. His hackney will be set up with the day’s work, and now he has no fresh horse; he will never get off.”
“Egad, there will be no moving with the speed of lightning this bout,” said Bucklaw, drily. “But stay, you can give him yours.”
“What! and be taken myself? I thank you for the proposal,” said Craigengelt.
“Why,” replied Bucklaw, “if the Lord Keeper should have met with a mischance, which for my part I cannot suppose, for the Master is not the lad to shoot an old and unarmed man—but if there should have been a fray at the Castle, you are neither art not part in it, you know, so have nothing to fear.”
“True, true,” answered the other, with embarrassment; “but consider my commission from Saint Germains.”
“Which many men think is a commission of your own making, noble Captain. Well, if you will not give him your horse, why, d——n it, he must have mine.”
“Yours?” said Craigengelt.