The usual revels had taken place, and in most parts of the city were
succeeded by the usual pause. A particular degree of care had been
taken by the nobility to prevent any renewal of discord betwixt
their followers and the citizens of the town, so that the revels
had proceeded with fewer casualties than usual, embracing only three
deaths and certain fractured limbs, which, occurring to individuals
of little note, were not accounted worth inquiring into. The carnival
was closing quietly in general, but in some places the sport was
still kept up.

One company of revellers, who had been particularly noticed and
applauded, seemed unwilling to conclude their frolic. The entry, as
it was called, consisted of thirteen persons, habited in the same
manner, having doublets of chamois leather sitting close to their
bodies, curiously slashed and laced. They wore green caps with silver
tassels, red ribands, and white shoes, had bells hung at their
knees and around their ankles, and naked swords in their hands. This
gallant party, having exhibited a sword dance before the King, with
much clashing of weapons and fantastic interchange of postures, went
on gallantly to repeat their exhibition before the door of Simon
Glover, where, having made a fresh exhibition of their agility,
they caused wine to be served round to their own company and the
bystanders, and with a loud shout drank to the health of the Fair
Maid of Perth. This summoned old Simon to the door of his habitation,
to acknowledge the courtesy of his countrymen, and in his turn
to send the wine around in honour of the Merry Morrice Dancers of
Perth.

"We thank thee, father Simon," said a voice, which strove to drown
in an artificial squeak the pert, conceited tone of Oliver Proudfute.
"But a sight of thy lovely daughter had been more sweet to us young
bloods than a whole vintage of Malvoisie."

"I thank thee, neighbours, for your goodwill," replied the glover.
"My daughter is ill at ease, and may not come forth into the cold
night air; but if this gay gallant, whose voice methinks I should
know, will go into my poor house, she will charge him with thanks
for the rest of you."

"Bring them to us at the hostelrie of the Griffin," cried the
rest of the ballet to their favoured companion; "for there will we
ring in Lent, and have another rouse to the health of the lovely
Catharine."

"Have with you in half an hour," said Oliver, "and see who will
quaff the largest flagon, or sing the loudest glee. Nay, I will be
merry in what remains of Fastern's Even, should Lent find me with
my mouth closed for ever."

"Farewell, then," cried his mates in the morrice--"fare well,
slashing bonnet maker, till we meet again."

The morrice dancers accordingly set out upon their further progress,
dancing and carolling as they went along to the sound of four
musicians, who led the joyous band, while Simon Glover drew their
coryphaeus into his house, and placed him in a chair by his parlour
fire.

"But where is your daughter?" said Oliver. "She is the bait for us
brave blades."

"Why, truly, she keeps her apartment, neighbour Oliver; and, to
speak plainly, she keeps her bed."

"Why, then will I upstairs to see her in her sorrow; you have marred
my ramble, Gaffer Glover, and you owe me amends--a roving blade
like me; I will not lose both the lass and the glass. Keeps her
bed, does she?

"My dog and I we have a trick
To visit maids when they are sick;
When they are sick and like to die,
Oh, thither do come my dog and I.

"And when I die, as needs must hap,
Then bury me under the good ale tap;
With folded arms there let me lie
Cheek for jowl, my dog and I."

"Canst thou not be serious for a moment, neighbour Proudfute?" said
the glover; "I want a word of conversation with you."

"Serious!" answered his visitor; "why, I have been serious all
this day: I can hardly open my mouth, but something comes out about
death, a burial, or suchlike--the most serious subjects that I
wot of."

"St. John, man!" said the glover, "art then fey?"

"No, not a whit: it is not my own death which these gloomy fancies
foretell. I have a strong horoscope, and shall live for fifty years
to come. But it is the case of the poor fellow--the Douglas man,
whom I struck down at the fray of St. Valentine's: he died last
night; it is that which weighs on my conscience, and awakens sad
fancies. Ah, father Simon, we martialists, that have spilt blood
in our choler, have dark thoughts at times; I sometimes wish that
my knife had cut nothing but worsted thrums."

"And I wish," said Simon, "that mine had cut nothing but buck's
leather, for it has sometimes cut my own fingers. But thou mayst
spare thy remorse for this bout: there was but one man dangerously
hurt at the affray, and it was he from whom Henry Smith hewed the
hand, and he is well recovered. His name is Black Quentin, one of
Sir John Ramorny's followers. He has been sent privately back to
his own country of Fife."

"What, Black Quentin? Why, that is the very man that Henry and I,
as we ever keep close together, struck at in the same moment, only
my blow fell somewhat earlier. I fear further feud will come of
it, and so does the provost. And is he recovered? Why, then, I will
be jovial, and since thou wilt not let me see how Kate becomes her
night gear, I will back to the Griffin to my morrice dancers."

"Nay, stay but one instant. Thou art a comrade of Henry Wynd, and
hast done him the service to own one or two deeds and this last
among others. I would thou couldst clear him of other charges with
which fame hath loaded him."

"Nay, I will swear by the hilt of my sword they are as false as
hell, father Simon. What--blades and targets! shall not men of
the sword stick together?"

"Nay, neighbour bonnet maker, be patient; thou mayst do the smith
a kind turn, an thou takest this matter the right way. I have chosen
thee to consult with anent this matter--not that I hold thee the
wisest head in Perth, for should I say so I should lie."

"Ay--ay," answered the self satisfied bonnet maker; "I know where
you think my fault lies: you cool heads think we hot heads are
fools--I have heard men call Henry Wynd such a score of times."

"Fool enough and cool enough may rhyme together passing well," said
the glover; "but thou art good natured, and I think lovest this
crony of thine. It stands awkwardly with us and him just now,"
continued Simon. "Thou knowest there hath been some talk of marriage
between my daughter Catharine and Henry Gow?"

"I have heard some such song since St. Valentine's Morn. Ah! he
that shall win the Fair Maid of Perth must be a happy man; and yet
marriage spoils many a pretty fellow. I myself somewhat regret--"

"Prithee, truce with thy regrets for the present, man," interrupted
the glover, somewhat peevishly. "You must know, Oliver, that some
of these talking women, who I think make all the business of the
world their own, have accused Henry of keeping light company with
glee women and suchlike. Catharine took it to heart; and I held my
child insulted, that he had not waited upon her like a Valentine,
but had thrown himself into unseemly society on the very day when,
by ancient custom, he might have had an opportunity to press his
interest with my daughter. Therefore, when he came hither late on
the evening of St. Valentine's, I, like a hasty old fool, bid him
go home to the company he had left, and denied him admittance. I
have not seen him since, and I begin to think that I may have been
too rash in the matter. She is my only child, and the grave should
have her sooner than a debauchee, But I have hitherto thought I
knew Henry Gow as if he were my son. I cannot think he would use
us thus, and it may be there are means of explaining what is laid
to his charge. I was led to ask Dwining, who is said to have saluted
the smith while he was walking with this choice mate. If I am to
believe his words, this wench was the smith's cousin, Joan Letham.
But thou knowest that the potter carrier ever speaks one language
with his visage and another with his tongue. Now, thou, Oliver, hast
too little wit--I mean, too much honesty--to belie the truth,
and as Dwining hinted that thou also hadst seen her--"

"I see her, Simon Glover! Will Dwining say that I saw her?"

"No, not precisely that; but he says you told him you had met the
smith thus accompanied."

"He lies, and I will pound him into a gallipot!" said Oliver
Proudfute.

"How! Did you never tell him, then, of such a meeting?"

"What an if I did?" said the bonnet maker. "Did not he swear that
he would never repeat again to living mortal what I communicated to
him? and therefore, in telling the occurrent to you, he hath made
himself a liar."

"Thou didst not meet the smith, then," said Simon, "with such a
loose baggage as fame reports?"

"Lackaday, not I; perhaps I did, perhaps I did not. Think, father
Simon--I have been a four years married man, and can you expect
me to remember the turn of a glee woman's ankle, the trip of her
toe, the lace upon her petticoat, and such toys? No, I leave that
to unmarried wags, like my gossip Henry."

"The upshot is, then," said the glover, much vexed, "you did meet
him on St. Valentine's Day walking the public streets--"

"Not so, neighbour; I met him in the most distant and dark lane
in Perth, steering full for his own house, with bag and baggage,
which, as a gallant fellow, he carried in his arms, the puppy dog
on one and the jilt herself--and to my thought she was a pretty
one--hanging upon the other."

"Now, by good St. John," said the glover, "this infamy would make
a Christian man renounce his faith, and worship Mahound in very
anger! But he has seen the last of my daughter. I would rather
she went to the wild Highlands with a barelegged cateran than wed
with one who could, at such a season, so broadly forget honour and
decency. Out upon him!"

"Tush--tush! father Simon," said the liberal minded bonnet maker,
"you consider not the nature of young blood. Their company was not
long, for--to speak truth, I did keep a little watch on him--I
met him before sunrise, conducting his errant damsel to the Lady's
Stairs, that the wench might embark on the Tay from Perth; and I
know for certainty, for I made inquiry, that she sailed in a gabbart
for Dundee. So you see it was but a slight escape of youth."

"And he came here," said Simon, bitterly, "beseeching for admittance
to my daughter, while he had his harlot awaiting him at home! I had
rather he had slain a score of men! It skills not talking, least
of all to thee, Oliver Proudfute, who, if thou art not such a one
as himself, would fain be thought so. But--"

"Nay, think not of it so seriously," said Oliver, who began to
reflect on the mischief his tattling was likely to occasion to his
friend, and on the consequences of Henry Gow's displeasure, when
he should learn the disclosure which he had made rather in vanity
of heart than in evil intention.

"Consider," he continued, "that there are follies belonging to
youth. Occasion provokes men to such frolics, and confession wipes
them off. I care not if I tell thee that, though my wife be as
goodly a woman as the city has, yet I myself--"

"Peace, silly braggart," said the glover in high wrath; "thy loves
and thy battles are alike apocryphal. If thou must needs lie, which
I think is thy nature, canst thou invent no falsehood that may at
least do thee some credit? Do I not see through thee, as I could
see the light through the horn of a base lantern? Do I not know,
thou filthy weaver of rotten worsted, that thou durst no more cross
the threshold of thy own door, if thy wife heard of thy making such
a boast, than thou darest cross naked weapons with a boy of twelve
years old, who has drawn a sword for the first time of his life?
By St. John, it were paying you for your tale bearing trouble to
send thy Maudie word of thy gay brags."

The bonnet maker, at this threat, started as if a crossbow bolt
had whizzed past his head when least expected. And it was with
a trembling voice that he replied: "Nay, good father Glover, thou
takest too much credit for thy grey hairs. Consider, good neighbour,
thou art too old for a young martialist to wrangle with. And in
the matter of my Maudie, I can trust thee, for I know no one who
would be less willing than thou to break the peace of families."

"Trust thy coxcomb no longer with me," said the incensed glover;
"but take thyself, and the thing thou call'st a head, out of my
reach, lest I borrow back five minutes of my youth and break thy
pate!"

"You have had a merry Fastern's Even, neighbour," said the bonnet
maker, "and I wish you a quiet sleep; we shall meet better friends
tomorrow."

"Out of my doors tonight!" said the glover. "I am ashamed so idle
a tongue as thine should have power to move me thus."

"Idiot--beast--loose tongued coxcomb," he exclaimed, throwing
himself into a chair, as the bonnet maker disappeared; "that a
fellow made up of lies should not have had the grace to frame one
when it might have covered the shame of a friend! And I--what am
I, that I should, in my secret mind, wish that such a gross insult
to me and my child had been glossed over? Yet such was my opinion
of Henry, that I would have willingly believed the grossest figment
the swaggering ass could have invented. Well, it skills not thinking
of it. Our honest name must be maintained, though everything else
should go to ruin."

While the glover thus moralised on the unwelcome confirmation of
the tale he wished to think untrue, the expelled morrice dancer had
leisure, in the composing air of a cool and dark February night,
to meditate on the consequences of the glover's unrestrained anger.

"But it is nothing," he bethought himself, "to the wrath of Henry
Wynd, who hath killed a man for much less than placing displeasure
betwixt him and Catharine, as well as her fiery old father. Certainly
I were better have denied everything. But the humour of seeming a
knowing gallant, as in truth I am, fairly overcame me. Were I best
go to finish the revel at the Griffin? But then Maudie will rampauge
on my return--ay, and this being holiday even, I may claim a
privilege. I have it: I will not to the Griffin--I will to the
smith's, who must be at home, since no one hath seen him this day
amid the revel. I will endeavour to make peace with him, and offer
my intercession with the glover. Harry is a simple, downright fellow,
and though I think he is my better in a broil, yet in discourse I
can turn him my own way. The streets are now quiet, the night, too,
is dark, and I may step aside if I meet any rioters. I will to the
smith's, and, securing him for my friend, I care little for old
Simon. St. Ringan bear me well through this night, and I will clip
my tongue out ere it shall run my head into such peril again! Yonder
old fellow, when his blood was up, looked more like a carver of
buff jerkins than a clipper of kid gloves."

With these reflections, the puissant Oliver walked swiftly, yet with
as little noise as possible, towards the wynd in which the smith,
as our readers are aware, had his habitation. But his evil fortune
had not ceased to pursue him. As he turned into the High, or
principal, Street, he heard a burst of music very near him, followed
by a loud shout.

"My merry mates, the morrice dancers," thought he; "I would know
old Jeremy's rebeck among an hundred. I will venture across the
street ere they pass on; if I am espied, I shall have the renown
of some private quest, which may do me honour as a roving blade."

With these longings for distinction among the gay and gallant,
combated, however, internally, by more prudential considerations,
the bonnet maker made an attempt to cross the street. But the
revellers, whoever they might be, were accompanied by torches, the
flash of which fell upon Oliver, whose light coloured habit made
him the more distinctly visible. The general shout of "A prize--
a prize" overcame the noise of the minstrel, and before the bonnet
maker could determine whether it were better to stand or fly, two
active young men, clad in fantastic masking habits, resembling
wild men, and holding great clubs, seized upon him, saying, in a
tragical tone: "Yield thee, man of bells and bombast--yield thee,
rescue or no rescue, or truly thou art but a dead morrice dancer."

"To whom shall I yield me?" said the bonnet maker, with a faltering
voice; for, though he saw he had to do with a party of mummers
who were afoot for pleasure, yet he observed at the same time that
they were far above his class, and he lost the audacity necessary
to support his part in a game where the inferior was likely to come
by the worst.

"Dost thou parley, slave?" answered one of the maskers; "and must
I show thee that thou art a captive, by giving thee incontinently
the bastinado?"

"By no means, puissant man of Ind," said the bonnet maker; "lo, I
am conformable to your pleasure."

"Come, then," said those who had arrested him--"come and do homage
to the Emperor of Mimes, King of Caperers, and Grand Duke of the
Dark Hours, and explain by what right thou art so presumptuous as
to prance and jingle, and wear out shoe leather, within his dominions
without paying him tribute. Know'st thou not thou hast incurred
the pains of high treason?"

"That were hard, methinks," said poor Oliver, "since I knew not that
his Grace exercised the government this evening. But I am willing
to redeem the forfeit, if the purse of a poor bonnet maker may, by
the mulct of a gallon of wine, or some such matter."

"Bring him before the emperor," was the universal cry; and the
morrice dancer was placed before a slight, but easy and handsome,
figure of a young man, splendidly attired, having a cincture and tiara
of peacock's feathers, then brought from the East as a marvellous
rarity; a short jacket and under dress of leopard's skin fitted
closely the rest of his person, which was attired in flesh coloured
silk, so as to resemble the ordinary idea of an Indian prince. He
wore sandals, fastened on with ribands of scarlet silk, and held
in his hand a sort of fan, such as ladies then used, composed of
the same feathers, assembled into a plume or tuft.

"What mister wight have we here," said the Indian chief, "who dares
to tie the bells of a morrice on the ankles of a dull ass? Hark
ye, friend, your dress should make you a subject of ours, since our
empire extends over all Merryland, including mimes and minstrels
of every description. What, tongue tied? He lacks wine; minister
to him our nutshell full of sack."

A huge calabash full of sack was offered to the lips of the
supplicant, while this prince of revellers exhorted him:

"Crack me this nut, and do it handsomely, and without wry faces."

But, however Oliver might have relished a moderate sip of the same
good wine, he was terrified at the quantity he was required to deal
with. He drank a draught, and then entreated for mercy.

"So please your princedom, I have yet far to go, and if I were to
swallow your Grace's bounty, for which accept my dutiful thanks,
I should not be able to stride over the next kennel."

"Art thou in case to bear thyself like a galliard? Now, cut
me a caper--ha! one--two--three--admirable. Again--give
him the spur (here a satellite of the Indian gave Oliver a slight
touch with his sword). Nay, that is best of all: he sprang like a
cat in a gutter. Tender him the nut once more; nay, no compulsion,
he has paid forfeit, and deserves not only free dismissal but
reward. Kneel down--kneel, and arise Sir Knight of the Calabash!
What is thy name? And one of you lend me a rapier."

"Oliver, may it please your honour--I mean your principality."

"Oliver, man. Nay, then thou art one of the 'douze peers' already,
and fate has forestalled our intended promotion. Yet rise up, sweet
Sir Oliver Thatchpate, Knight of the honourable order of the Pumpkin
--rise up, in the name of nonsense, and begone about thine own
concerns, and the devil go with thee!"

So saying, the prince of the revels bestowed a smart blow with the
flat of the weapon across the bonnet maker's shoulders, who sprung
to his feet with more alacrity of motion than he had hitherto
displayed, and, accelerated by the laugh and halloo which arose
behind him, arrived at the smith's house before he stopped, with
the same speed with which a hunted fox makes for his den.

It was not till the affrighted bonnet maker had struck a blow on
the door that he recollected he ought to have bethought himself
beforehand in what manner he was to present himself before Henry,
and obtain his forgiveness for his rash communications to Simon
Glover. No one answered to his first knock, and, perhaps, as these
reflections arose in the momentary pause of recollection which
circumstances permitted, the perplexed bonnet maker might have
flinched from his purpose, and made his retreat to his own premises,
without venturing upon the interview which he had purposed. But a
distant strain of minstrelsy revived his apprehensions of falling
once more into the hands of the gay maskers from whom he had escaped,
and he renewed his summons on the door of the smith's dwelling
with a hurried, though faltering, hand. He was then appalled by
the deep, yet not unmusical, voice of Henry Gow, who answered from
within: "Who calls at this hour, and what is it that you want?"

"It is I--Oliver Proudfute," replied the bonnet maker; "I have
a merry jest to tell you, gossip Henry."

"Carry thy foolery to some other market. I am in no jesting humour,"
said Henry. "Go hence; I will see no one tonight."

"But, gossip--good gossip," answered the martialist with out, "I
am beset with villains, and beg the shelter of your roof!"

"Fool that thou art!" replied Henry; "no dunghill cock, the most
recreant that has fought this Fastern's Eve, would ruffle his
feathers at such a craven as thou!"

At this moment another strain of minstrelsy, and, as the bonnet
maker conceited, one which approached much nearer, goaded his
apprehensions to the uttermost; and in a voice the tones of which
expressed the undisguised extremity of instant fear he exclaimed:

"For the sake of our old gossipred, and for the love of Our Blessed
Lady, admit me, Henry, if you would not have me found a bloody
corpse at thy door, slain by the bloody minded Douglasses!"

"That would be a shame to me," thought the good natured smith, "and
sooth to say, his peril may be real. There are roving hawks that
will strike at a sparrow as soon as a heron."

With these reflections, half muttered, half spoken, Henry undid
his well fastened door, proposing to reconnoitre the reality of the
danger before he permitted his unwelcome guest to enter the house.
But as he looked abroad to ascertain how matters stood, Oliver
bolted in like a scared deer into a thicket, and harboured himself
by the smith's kitchen fire before Henry could look up and down the
lane, and satisfy himself there were no enemies in pursuit of the
apprehensive fugitive. He secured his door, therefore, and returned
into the kitchen, displeased that he had suffered his gloomy solitude
to be intruded upon by sympathising with apprehensions which he
thought he might have known were so easily excited as those of his
timid townsman.

"How now!" he said, coldly enough, when he saw the bonnet maker
calmly seated by his hearth. "What foolish revel is this, Master
Oliver? I see no one near to harm you."

"Give me a drink, kind gossip," said Oliver: "I am choked with the
haste I have made to come hither."

"I have sworn," said Henry, "that this shall be no revel night in
this house: I am in my workday clothes, as you see, and keep fast,
as I have reason, instead of holiday. You have had wassail enough
for the holiday evening, for you speak thick already. If you wish
more ale or wine you must go elsewhere."

"I have had overmuch wassail already," said poor Oliver, "and have
been well nigh drowned in it. That accursed calabash! A draught of
water, kind gossip--you will not surely let me ask for that in
vain? or, if it is your will, a cup of cold small ale."

"Nay, if that be all," said Henry, "it shall not be lacking. But
it must have been much which brought thee to the pass of asking
for either."

So saying, he filled a quart flagon from a barrel that stood nigh,
and presented it to his guest. Oliver eagerly accepted it, raised
it to his head with a trembling hand, imbibed the contents with
lips which quivered with emotion, and, though the potation was as
thin as he had requested, so much was he exhausted with the combined
fears of alarm and of former revelry, that, when he placed the
flagon on the oak table, he uttered a deep sigh of satisfaction,
and remained silent.

"Well, now you have had your draught, gossip," said the smith,
"what is it you want? Where are those that threatened you? I could
see no one."

"No--but there were twenty chased me into the wynd," said Oliver.
"But when they saw us together, you know they lost the courage that
brought all of them upon one of us."

"Nay, do not trifle, friend Oliver," replied his host; "my mood
lies not that way."

"I jest not, by St. John of Perth. I have been stayed and foully
outraged (gliding his hand sensitively over the place affected) by
mad David of Rothsay, roaring Ramorny, and the rest of them. They
made me drink a firkin of Malvoisie."

"Thou speakest folly, man. Ramorny is sick nigh to death, as the
potter carrier everywhere reports: they and he cannot surely rise
at midnight to do such frolics."

"I cannot tell," replied Oliver; "but I saw the party by torchlight,
and I can make bodily oath to the bonnets I made for them since
last Innocents'. They are of a quaint device, and I should know my
own stitch."

"Well, thou mayst have had wrong," answered Henry. "If thou art
in real danger, I will cause them get a bed for thee here. But you
must fill it presently, for I am not in the humour of talking."

"Nay, I would thank thee for my quarters for a night, only my Maudie
will be angry--that is, not angry, for that I care not for--
but the truth is, she is overanxious on a revel night like this,
knowing my humour is like thine for a word and a blow."

"Why, then, go home," said the smith, "and show her that her treasure
is in safety, Master Oliver; the streets are quiet, and, to speak
a blunt word, I would be alone."

"Nay, but I have things to speak with thee about of moment," replied
Oliver, who, afraid to stay, seemed yet unwilling to go. "There has
been a stir in our city council about the affair of St. Valentine's
Even. The provost told me not four hours since, that the Douglas
and he had agreed that the feud should be decided by a yeoman on
either party and that our acquaintance, the Devil's Dick, was to
wave his gentry, and take up the cause for Douglas and the nobles,
and that you or I should fight for the Fair City. Now, though I am
the elder burgess, yet I am willing, for the love and kindness we
have always borne to each other, to give thee the precedence, and
content myself with the humbler office of stickler."

Henry Smith, though angry, could scarce forbear a smile.

"If it is that which breaks thy quiet, and keeps thee out of thy
bed at midnight, I will make the matter easy. Thou shalt not lose
the advantage offered thee. I have fought a score of duels--far,
far too many. Thou hast, I think, only encountered with thy wooden
soldan: it were unjust--unfair--unkind--in me to abuse thy
friendly offer. So go home, good fellow, and let not the fear of
losing honour disturb thy slumbers. Rest assured that thou shalt
answer the challenge, as good right thou hast, having had injury
from this rough rider."

"Gramercy, and thank thee kindly," said Oliver much embarrassed
by his friend's unexpected deference; "thou art the good friend I
have always thought thee. But I have as much friendship for Henry
Smith as he for Oliver Proudfute. I swear by St. John, I will
not fight in this quarrel to thy prejudice; so, having said so, I
am beyond the reach of temptation, since thou wouldst not have me
mansworn, though it were to fight twenty duels."

"Hark thee," said the smith, "acknowledge thou art afraid, Oliver:
tell the honest truth, at once, otherwise I leave thee to make the
best of thy quarrel."

"Nay, good gossip," replied the bonnet maker, "thou knowest I am
never afraid. But, in sooth, this is a desperate ruffian; and as
I have a wife--poor Maudie, thou knowest--and a small family,
and thou--"

"And I," interrupted Henry, hastily, "have none, and never shall
have."

"Why, truly, such being the case, I would rather thou fought'st
this combat than I."

"Now, by our halidome, gossip," answered the smith, "thou art
easily gored! Know, thou silly fellow, that Sir Patrick Charteris,
who is ever a merry man, hath but jested with thee. Dost thou
think he would venture the honour of the city on thy head, or that
I would yield thee the precedence in which such a matter was to
be disputed? Lackaday, go home, let Maudie tie a warm nightcap on
thy head, get thee a warm breakfast and a cup of distilled waters,
and thou wilt be in ease tomorrow to fight thy wooden dromond,
or soldan, as thou call'st him, the only thing thou wilt ever lay
downright blow upon."

"Ay, say'st thou so, comrade?" answered Oliver, much relieved, yet
deeming it necessary to seem in part offended. "I care not for thy
dogged humour; it is well for thee thou canst not wake my patience
to the point of falling foul. Enough--we are gossips, and this
house is thine. Why should the two best blades in Perth clash with
each other? What! I know thy rugged humour, and can forgive it.
But is the feud really soldered up?"

"As completely as ever hammer fixed rivet," said the smith. "The
town hath given the Johnstone a purse of gold, for not ridding
them of a troublesome fellow called Oliver Proudfute, when he had
him at his mercy; and this purse of gold buys for the provost the
Sleepless Isle, which the King grants him, for the King pays all
in the long run. And thus Sir Patrick gets the comely inch which is
opposite to his dwelling, and all honour is saved on both sides,
for what is given to the provost is given, you understand, to
the town. Besides all this, the Douglas hath left Perth to march
against the Southron, who, men say, are called into the marches by
the false Earl of March. So the Fair City is quit of him and his
cumber."

"But, in St. John's name, how came all that about," said Oliver,
"and no one spoken to about it?"

"Why, look thee, friend Oliver, this I take to have been the case.
The fellow whom I cropped of a hand is now said to have been a
servant of Sir John Ramorny's, who hath fled to his motherland of
Fife, to which Sir John himself is also to be banished, with full
consent of every honest man. Now, anything which brings in Sir John
Ramorny touches a much greater man--I think Simon Glover told as
much to Sir Patrick Charteris. If it be as I guess, I have reason
to thank Heaven and all the saints I stabbed him not upon the ladder
when I made him prisoner."

"And I too thank Heaven and all the saints, most devoutly," said
Oliver. "I was behind thee, thou knowest, and--"

"No more of that, if thou be'st wise. There are laws against
striking princes," said the smith: "best not handle the horseshoe
till it cools. All is hushed up now."

"If this be so," said Oliver, partly disconcerted, but still more
relieved, by the intelligence he received from his better informed
friend, "I have reason to complain of Sir Patrick Charteris for
jesting with the honour of an honest burgess, being, as he is,
provost of our town."

"Do, Oliver; challenge him to the field, and he will bid his yeoman
loose his dogs on thee. But come, night wears apace, will you be
shogging?"

"Nay, I had one word more to say to thee, good gossip. But first,
another cup of your cold ale."

"Pest on thee for a fool! Thou makest me wish thee where told liquors
are a scarce commodity. There, swill the barrelful an thou wilt."

Oliver took the second flagon, but drank, or rather seemed to drink,
very slowly, in order to gain time for considering how he should
introduce his second subject of conversation, which seemed rather
delicate for the smith's present state of irritability. At length,
nothing better occurred to him than to plunge into the subject at
once, with, "I have seen Simon Glover today, gossip."

"Well," said the smith, in a low, deep, and stern tone of voice,
"and if thou hast, what is that to me?"

"Nothing--nothing," answered the appalled bonnet maker. "Only
I thought you might like to know that he questioned me close if
I had seen thee on St. Valentine's Day, after the uproar at the
Dominicans', and in what company thou wert."

"And I warrant thou told'st him thou met'st me with a glee woman
in the mirk loaning yonder?"

"Thou know'st, Henry, I have no gift at lying; but I made it all
up with him."

"As how, I pray you?" said the smith.

"Marry, thus: 'Father Simon,' said I, 'you are an old man, and know
not the quality of us, in whose veins youth is like quicksilver.
You think, now, he cares about this girl,' said I, 'and, perhaps,
that he has her somewhere here in Perth in a corner? No such matter;
I know,' said I, 'and I will make oath to it, that she left his
house early next morning for Dundee.' Ha! have I helped thee at
need?"

"Truly, I think thou hast, and if anything could add to my grief
and vexation at this moment, it is that, when I am so deep in the
mire, an ass like thee should place his clumsy hoof on my head, to
sink me entirely. Come, away with thee, and mayst thou have such
luck as thy meddling humour deserves; and then I think, thou wilt
be found with a broken neck in the next gutter. Come, get you out,
or I will put you to the door with head and shoulders forward."

"Ha--ha!" exclaimed Oliver, laughing with some constraint, "thou
art such a groom! But in sadness, gossip Henry, wilt thou not take
a turn with me to my own house, in the Meal Vennel?"

"Curse thee, no," answered the smith.

"I will bestow the wine on thee if thou wilt go," said Oliver.

"I will bestow the cudgel on thee if thou stay'st," said Henry.

"Nay, then, I will don thy buff coat and cap of steel, and walk
with thy swashing step, and whistling thy pibroch of 'Broken Bones
at Loncarty'; and if they take me for thee, there dare not four of
them come near me."

"Take all or anything thou wilt, in the fiend's name! only be gone."

"Well--well, Hal, we shall meet when thou art in better humour,"
said Oliver, who had put on the dress.

"Go; and may I never see thy coxcombly face again."

Oliver at last relieved his host by swaggering off, imitating as well
as he could the sturdy step and outward gesture of his redoubted
companion, and whistling a pibroch composed on the rout of the Danes
at Loncarty, which he had picked up from its being a favourite of
the smith's, whom he made a point of imitating as far as he could.
But as the innocent, though conceited, fellow stepped out from the
entrance of the wynd, where it communicated with the High Street,
he received a blow from behind, against which his headpiece was no
defence, and he fell dead upon the spot, an attempt to mutter the
name of Henry, to whom he always looked for protection, quivering
upon his dying tongue.



CHAPTER XVII.

Nay, I will fit you for a young prince.

Falstaff.


We return to the revellers, who had, half an hour before, witnessed,
with such boisterous applause, Oliver's feat of agility, being the
last which the poor bonnet maker was ever to exhibit, and at the
hasty retreat which had followed it, animated by their wild shout.
After they had laughed their fill, they passed on their mirthful
path in frolic and jubilee, stopping and frightening some of the
people whom they met, but, it must be owned, without doing them
any serious injury, either in their persons or feelings. At length,
tired with his rambles, their chief gave a signal to his merry men
to close around him.

"We, my brave hearts and wise counsellors, are," he said, "the
real king over all in Scotland that is worth commanding. We sway
the hours when the wine cup circulates, and when beauty becomes
kind, when frolic is awake, and gravity snoring upon his pallet. We
leave to our vice regent, King Robert, the weary task of controlling
ambitious nobles, gratifying greedy clergymen, subduing wild
Highlanders, and composing deadly feuds. And since our empire is
one of joy and pleasure, meet it is that we should haste with all
our forces to the rescue of such as own our sway, when they chance,
by evil fortune, to become the prisoners of care and hypochondriac
malady. I speak in relation chiefly to Sir John, whom the vulgar
call Ramorny. We have not seen him since the onslaught of Curfew
Street, and though we know he was somedeal hurt in that matter, we
cannot see why he should not do homage in leal and duteous sort.
Here, you, our Calabash King at arms, did you legally summon Sir
John to his part of this evening's revels?"

"I did, my lord."

"And did you acquaint him that we have for this night suspended
his sentence of banishment, that, since higher powers have settled
that part, we might at least take a mirthful leave of an old friend?"

"I so delivered it, my lord," answered the mimic herald.

"And sent he not a word in writing, he that piques himself upon
being so great a clerk?"

"He was in bed, my lord, and I might not see him. So far as I
hear, he hath lived very retired, harmed with some bodily bruises,
malcontent with your Highness's displeasure, and doubting insult
in the streets, he having had a narrow escape from the burgesses,
when the churls pursued him and his two servants into the Dominican
convent. The servants, too, have been removed to Fife, lest they
should tell tales."

"Why, it was wisely done," said the Prince, who, we need not inform
the intelligent reader, had a better title to be so called than
arose from the humours of the evening--"it was prudently done
to keep light tongued companions out of the way. But St. John's
absenting himself from our solemn revels, so long before decreed,
is flat mutiny and disclamation of allegiance. Or, if the knight
be really the prisoner of illness and melancholy, we must ourself
grace him with a visit, seeing there can be no better cure for those
maladies than our own presence, and a gentle kiss of the calabash.
Forward, ushers, minstrels, guard, and attendants! Bear on high
the great emblem of our dignity. Up with the calabash, I say, and
let the merry men who carry these firkins, which are to supply
the wine cup with their life blood, be chosen with regard to their
state of steadiness. Their burden is weighty and precious, and if
the fault is not in our eyes, they seem to us to reel and stagger
more than were desirable. Now, move on, sirs, and let our minstrels
blow their blythest and boldest."

On they went with tipsy mirth and jollity, the numerous torches
flashing their red light against the small windows of the narrow
streets, from whence nightcapped householders, and sometimes their
wives to boot, peeped out by stealth to see what wild wassail
disturbed the peaceful streets at that unwonted hour. At length
the jolly train halted before the door of Sir John Ramorny's house,
which a small court divided from the street.

Here they knocked, thundered, and halloo'd, with many denunciations
of vengeance against the recusants who refused to open the gates.
The least punishment threatened was imprisonment in an empty
hogshead, within the massamore [principal dungeon] of the Prince
of Pastimes' feudal palace, videlicet, the ale cellar. But Eviot,
Ramorny's page, heard and knew well the character of the intruders
who knocked so boldly, and thought it better, considering his
master's condition, to make no answer at all, in hopes that the
revel would pass on, than to attempt to deprecate their proceedings,
which he knew would be to no purpose. His master's bedroom looking
into a little garden, his page hoped he might not be disturbed
by the noise; and he was confident in the strength of the outward
gate, upon which he resolved they should beat till they tired
themselves, or till the tone of their drunken humour should change.
The revellers accordingly seemed likely to exhaust themselves in
the noise they made by shouting and beating the door, when their
mock prince (alas! too really such) upbraided them as lazy and dull
followers of the god of wine and of mirth.

"Bring forward," he said, "our key, yonder it lies, and apply it
to this rebellious gate."

The key he pointed at was a large beam of wood, left on one side
of the street, with the usual neglect of order characteristic of
a Scottish borough of the period.

The shouting men of Ind instantly raised it in their arms, and,
supporting it by their united strength, ran against the door with
such force, that hasp, hinge, and staple jingled, and gave fair
promise of yielding. Eviot did not choose to wait the extremity of
this battery: he came forth into the court, and after some momentary
questions for form's sake, caused the porter to undo the gate, as
if he had for the first time recognised the midnight visitors.

"False slave of an unfaithful master," said the Prince, "where is
our disloyal subject, Sir John Ramorny, who has proved recreant to
our summons?"

"My lord," said Eviot, bowing at once to the real and to the assumed
dignity of the leader, "my master is just now very much indisposed:
he has taken an opiate--and--your Highness must excuse me if
I do my duty to him in saying, he cannot be spoken with without
danger of his life."

"Tush! tell me not of danger, Master Teviot--Cheviot--Eviot
--what is it they call thee? But show me thy master's chamber,
or rather undo me the door of his lodging, and I will make a good
guess at it myself. Bear high the calabash, my brave followers,
and see that you spill not a drop of the liquor, which Dan Bacchus
has sent for the cure of all diseases of the body and cares of the
mind. Advance it, I say, and let us see the holy rind which incloses
such precious liquor."

The Prince made his way into the house accordingly, and, acquainted
with its interior, ran upstairs, followed by Eviot, in vain imploring
silence, and, with the rest of the rabble rout, burst into the room
of the wounded master of the lodging.

He who has experienced the sensation of being compelled to sleep
in spite of racking bodily pains by the administration of a strong
opiate, and of having been again startled by noise and violence
out of the unnatural state of insensibility in which he had been
plunged by the potency of the medicine, may be able to imagine
the confused and alarmed state of Sir John Ramorny's mind, and the
agony of his body, which acted and reacted upon each other. If we
add to these feelings the consciousness of a criminal command, sent
forth and in the act of being executed, it may give us some idea
of an awakening to which, in the mind of the party, eternal sleep
would be a far preferable doom. The groan which he uttered as the
first symptom of returning sensation had something in it so terrific,
that even the revellers were awed into momentary silence; and as,
from the half recumbent posture in which he had gone to sleep,
he looked around the room, filled with fantastic shapes, rendered
still more so by his disturbed intellects, he muttered to himself:

"It is thus, then, after all, and the legend is true! These are
fiends, and I am condemned for ever! The fire is not external,
but I feel it--I feel it at my heart--burning as if the seven
times heated furnace were doing its work within!"

While he cast ghastly looks around him, and struggled to recover
some share of recollection, Eviot approached the Prince, and, falling
on his knees, implored him to allow the apartment to be cleared.

"It may," he said, "cost my master his life."

"Never fear, Cheviot," replied the Duke of Rothsay; "were he at
the gates of death, here is what should make the fiends relinquish
their prey. Advance the calabash, my masters."

"It is death for him to taste it in his present state," said Eviot:
"if he drinks wine he dies."

"Some one must drink it for him--he shall be cured vicariously;
and may our great Dan Bacchus deign to Sir John Ramorny the comfort,
the elevation of heart, the lubrication of lungs, and lightness of
fancy, which are his choicest gifts, while the faithful follower,
who quaffs in his stead, shall have the qualms, the sickness, the
racking of the nerves, the dimness of the eyes, and the throbbing
of the brain, with which our great master qualifies gifts which
would else make us too like the gods. What say you, Eviot? will
you be the faithful follower that will quaff in your lord's behalf,
and as his representative? Do this, and we will hold ourselves
contented to depart, for, methinks, our subject doth look something
ghastly."

"I would do anything in my slight power," said Eviot, "to save my
master from a draught which may be his death, and your Grace from
the sense that you had occasioned it. But here is one who will
perform the feat of goodwill, and thank your Highness to boot."

"Whom have we here?" said the Prince, "a butcher, and I think fresh
from his office. Do butchers ply their craft on Fastern's Eve? Foh,
how he smells of blood!"

This was spoken of Bonthron, who, partly surprised at the tumult in
the house, where he had expected to find all dark and silent, and
partly stupid through the wine which the wretch had drunk in great
quantities, stood in the threshold of the door, staring at the scene
before him, with his buff coat splashed with blood, and a bloody
axe in his hand, exhibiting a ghastly and disgusting spectacle to
the revellers, who felt, though they could not tell why, fear as
well as dislike at his presence.

As they approached the calabash to this ungainly and truculent
looking savage, and as he extended a hand soiled as it seemed with
blood, to grasp it, the Prince called out:

"Downstairs with him! let not the wretch drink in our presence;
find him some other vessel than our holy calabash, the emblem of
our revels: a swine's trough were best, if it could be come by.
Away with him! let him be drenched to purpose, in atonement for
his master's sobriety. Leave me alone with Sir John Ramorny and
his page; by my honour, I like not yon ruffian's looks."

The attendants of the Prince left the apartment, and Eviot alone
remained.

"I fear," said the Prince, approaching the bed in different form
from that which he had hitherto used--"I fear, my dear Sir John,
that this visit has been unwelcome; but it is your own fault.
Although you know our old wont, and were your self participant of
our schemes for the evening, you have not come near us since St.
Valentine's; it is now Fastern's Even, and the desertion is flat
disobedience and treason to our kingdom of mirth and the statutes
of the calabash."

Ramorny raised his head, and fixed a wavering eye upon the Prince;
then signed to Eviot to give him something to drink. A large cup
of ptisan was presented by the page, which the sick man swallowed
with eager and trembling haste. He then repeatedly used the
stimulating essence left for the purpose by the leech, and seemed
to collect his scattered senses.

"Let me feel your pulse, dear Ramorny," said the Prince; "I know
something of that craft. How! Do your offer me the left hand, Sir
John? that is neither according to the rules of medicine nor of
courtesy."

"The right has already done its last act in your Highness's service,"
muttered the patient in a low and broken tone.

"How mean you by that?" said the Prince. "I am aware thy follower,
Black Quentin, lost a hand; but he can steal with the other as
much as will bring him to the gallows, so his fate cannot be much
altered."

"It is not that fellow who has had the loss in your Grace's service:
it is I, John of Ramorny."

"You!" said the Prince; "you jest with me, or the opiate still
masters your reason."

"If the juice of all the poppies in Egypt were blended in one
draught," said Ramorny, "it would lose influence over me when I
look upon this." He drew his right arm from beneath the cover of
the bedclothes, and extending it towards the Prince, wrapped as it
was in dressings, "Were these undone and removed," he said, "your
Highness would see that a bloody stump is all that remains of a hand
ever ready to unsheath the sword at your Grace's slightest bidding."

Rothsay started back in horror. "This," he said, "must be avenged!"

"It is avenged in small part," said Ramorny--"that is, I thought
I saw Bonthron but now; or was it that the dream of hell that first
arose in my mind when I awakened summoned up an image so congenial?
Eviot, call the miscreant--that is, if he is fit to appear."

Eviot retired, and presently returned with Bonthron, whom he had
rescued from the penance, to him no unpleasing infliction, of a
second calabash of wine, the brute having gorged the first without
much apparent alteration in his demeanour.

"Eviot," said the Prince, "let not that beast come nigh me. My soul
recoils from him in fear and disgust: there is something in his
looks alien from my nature, and which I shudder at as at a loathsome
snake, from which my instinct revolts."

"First hear him speak, my lord," answered Ramorny; "unless a wineskin
were to talk, nothing could use fewer words. Hast thou dealt with
him, Bonthron?"

The savage raised the axe which he still held in his hand, and
brought it down again edgeways.

"Good. How knew you your man? the night, I am told, is dark."

"By sight and sound, garb, gait, and whistle."

"Enough, vanish! and, Eviot, let him have gold and wine to his
brutish contentment. Vanish! and go thou with him."

"And whose death is achieved?" said the Prince, released from the
feelings of disgust and horror under which he suffered while the
assassin was in presence. "I trust this is but a jest! Else must
I call it a rash and savage deed. Who has had the hard lot to be
butchered by that bloody and brutal slave?"