"
"Well, Sir Mungo," said Lord Glenvarloch, "this is all no doubt very
consolatory; but I hope the king will spare my hand to fight for him
in battle, where, notwithstanding all your kind encouragement, I could
spend my blood much more cheerfully than on a scaffold."
"It is even a sad truth," replied Sir Mungo, "that your lordship was
but too like to have died on a scaffold--not a soul to speak for you
but that deluded lassie Maggie Ramsay."
"Whom mean you?" said Nigel, with more interest than he had hitherto
shown in the Knight's communications.
"Nay, who should I mean, but that travestied lassie whom we dined with
when we honoured Heriot the goldsmith? Ye ken best how you have made
interest with her, but I saw her on her knees to the king for you. She
was committed to my charge, to bring her up hither in honour and
safety. Had I had my own will, I would have had her to Bridewell, to
flog the wild blood out of her--a cutty quean, to think of wearing the
breeches, and not so much as married yet!"
"Hark ye, Sir Mungo Malagrowther," answered Nigel, "I would have you
talk of that young person with fitting respect."
"With all the respect that befits your lordship's paramour, and Davy
Ramsay's daughter, I shall certainly speak of her, my lord," said Sir
Mungo, assuming a dry tone of irony.
Nigel was greatly disposed to have made a serious quarrel of it, but
with Sir Mungo such an affair would have been ridiculous; he smothered
his resentment, therefore, and conjured him to tell what he had heard
and seen respecting this young person.
Pages:
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611