“If your honour has a fancy,” replied Caleb, “and doubtless it’s a sad-coloured suit, and you are in mourning; nevertheless, I have never tried on the drap-de-Berry—ill wad it become me—and your honour having no change of claiths at this present—and it’s weel brushed, and as there are leddies down yonder——”
“Ladies!” said Ravenswood; “and what ladies, pray?”
“What do I ken, your lordship? Looking down at them from the Warden’s Tower, I could but see them glent by wi’ their bridles ringing and their feathers fluttering, like the court of Elfland.”
“Well, well, Caleb,” replied the Master, “help me on with my cloak, and hand me my sword-belt. What clatter is that in the courtyard?”
“Just Bucklaw bringing out the horses,” said Caleb, after a glance through the window, “as if there werena men eneugh in the castle, or as if I couldna serve the turn of ony o’ them that are out o’ the gate.”
“Alas! Caleb, we should want little if your ability were equal to your will,” replied the Master.
“And I hope your lordship disna want that muckle,” said Caleb; “for, considering a’ things, I trust we support the credit of the family as weel as things will permit of,—only Bucklaw is aye sae frank and sae forward. And there he has brought out your lordship’s palfrey, without the saddle being decored wi’ the broidered sumpter-cloth! and I could have brushed it in a minute.”
“It is all very well,” said his master, escaping from him and descending the narrow and steep winding staircase which led to the courtyard.
“It may be a’ very weel,” said Caleb, somewhat peevishly; “but if your lordship wad tarry a bit, I will tell you what will not be very weel.”
“And what is that?” said Ravenswood, impatiently, but stopping at the same time.