"
"God forbid that I should laugh!" said Richie, composing his
countenance into its natural rigidity. "I did but smile, to bring my
visage into coincidence and conformity with your Majesty's
physiognomy."
"Ye speak as a dutiful subject, and an honest man," said the king;
"but what deil's your name, man?"
"Even Richie Moniplies, the son of auld Mungo Moniplies, at the West
Port of Edinburgh, who had the honour to supply your Majesty's
mother's royal table, as weel as your Majesty's, with flesh and other
vivers, when time was."
"Aha!" said the king, laughing,--for he possessed, as a useful
attribute of his situation, a tenacious memory, which recollected
every one with whom he was brought into casual contact,--"Ye are the
self-same traitor who had weelnigh coupit us endlang on the causey of
our ain courtyard? but we stuck by our mare. _Equam memento rebus in
arduis servare_. Weel, be not dismayed, Richie; for, as many men have
turned traitors, it is but fair that a traitor, now and then, suld
prove to be, contra expectanda, a true man. How cam ye by our jewels,
man?--cam ye on the part of George Heriot?"
"In no sort," said Richie. "May it please your Majesty, I come as
Harry Wynd fought, utterly for my own hand, and on no man's errand;
as, indeed, I call no one master, save Him that made me, your most
gracious Majesty who governs me, and the noble Nigel Olifaunt, Lord of
Glenvarloch, who maintained me as lang as he could maintain himself,
poor nobleman!"
"Glenvarlochides again!" exclaimed the king; "by my honour, he lies in
ambush for us at every corner!--Maxwell knocks at the door.
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