--In the name of God, what keeps Steenie?
And, praised be his name, they are coming--Hillo, ho--here, here--
Steenie, Steenie!"
The Duke of Buckingham galloped up, followed by several courtiers and
attendants of the royal chase, and commenced with his usual
familiarity,--"I see Fortune has graced our dear dad, as usual.--But
what's this?"
"What is it? It is treason for what I ken," said the king; "and a'
your wyte, Steenie. Your dear dad and gossip might have been murdered,
for what you care."
"Murdered? Secure the villain!" exclaimed the Duke. "By Heaven, it is
Olifaunt himself!" A dozen of the hunters dismounted at once, letting
their horses run wild through the park. Some seized roughly on Lord
Glenvarloch, who thought it folly to offer resistance, while others
busied themselves with the king. "Are you wounded, my liege--are you
wounded?"
"Not that I ken of," said the king, in the paroxysm of his
apprehension, (which, by the way, might be pardoned in one of so
timorous a temper, and who, in his time, had been exposed to so many
strange attempts)--"Not that I ken of--but search him--search him. I
am sure I saw fire-arms under his cloak. I am sure I smelled powder--I
am dooms sure of that."
Lord Glenvarloch's cloak being stripped off, and his pistols
discovered, a shout of wonder and of execration on the supposed
criminal purpose, arose from the crowd now thickening every moment.
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