Lord Keeper and his daughter were saved from such imminent peril, two strangers were seated in the most private apartment of a small obscure inn, or rather alehouse, called the Tod&rs

ould read a man’s purpose. At any rate, he will give him such a bullying as will be construed into an assault on a privy councillor; so there will be a total breach betwixt him and government. Scotland will be too hot for him; France will gain him; and we will all set sail together in the French brig ‘L’Espoir,’ which is hovering for us off Eyemouth.”“Content am I,” said Bucklaw; “Scotland has little left that I care about; and if carrying the Master with us will get us a better reception in France, why, so be it, a God’s name. I doubt our own merits will procure us slender preferment; and I trust he will send a ball through the Keeper’s head before he joins us. One or two of these scoundrel statesmen should be shot once a year, just to keep the others on their good behaviour.”“That is very true,” replied Craigengelt; “and it reminds me that I must go and see that our horses have been fed and are in readiness; for, should such deed be done, it will be no time for grass to grow beneath their heels.” He proceeded as far as the door, then turned back with a look of earnestness, and said to Bucklaw: “Whatever should come of this business, I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that I said nothing to the Master which could imply my accession to any act of violence which he may take it into his head to commit.”“No, no, not a single word like accession,” replied Bucklaw; “you know too well the risk belonging to these two terrible words, ‘art and part.’” Then, as if to himself, he recited the following lines:“The dial spoke not, but it made shrewd signs, And pointed full upon the stroke of murder.“What is that you are talking to yourself?” said Craigengelt, turning back with some anxiety.“Nothing, only two lines I have heard upon the stage,” replied his companion.“Bucklaw,” said Craigengelt, “I sometimes think you should have been a stage-player yourself; all is fancy and frolic with you.”“I have often thought so myself,” said Bucklaw. “I believe it would be safer than acting with you in the Fatal Conspiracy. But away, play your own part, and look after the horses like a groom as you are. A play-actor — a stage-player!” he repeated to himself; “that would have deserved a stab, but that Craigengelt’s a coward. And yet I should like the profession well enough. Stay, let me see; ay, I would come out in Alexander:Thus from the grave I rise to save my love,Draw all your swords, and quick as lightning move.When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay:’Tis love commands, and glory leads the way.”As with a voice of thunder, and his hand upon his sword, Bucklaw repeated the ranting couplets of poor Lee, Craigengelt re-entered with a face of alarm.“We are undone, Bucklaw! The Master’s led horse has cast himself over his halter in the stable, and is dead lame. His hackney will be set up with the day’s work, and now he has no fresh horse; he will never get off.”“Egad, there will be no moving with the speed of lightning this bout,” said Bucklaw, drily. “But stay, you can give him yours.”“What! and be taken myself? I thank you for the proposal,” said Craigengelt.“Why,” replied Bucklaw, “if the Lord Keeper should have met with a mischance, which for my part I cannot suppose, for the Master is not the lad to shoot an old and unarmed man — but IF there should have been a fray at the Castle, you are neither art not part in it, you know, so have nothing to fear.”“True, true,” answered the other, with embarrassment; “but consider my commission from Saint Germains.”“Which many men think is a commission of your own making, noble Captain. Well, if you will not give him your horse, why, d —— n it, he must have mine.”“Yours?” said Craigengelt.“Ay, mine,” repeated Bucklaw; “it shall never be said that I agreed to back a gentleman in a little affair of honour, and neither helped him on with it nor off from it.”“You will give him your horse? and have you considered the loss?”“Loss! why, Grey Gilbert cost me twenty Jacobuses, that’s true; but then his hackney is worth something, and his Black Moor is worth twice as much were he sound, and I know how to handle him. Take a fat sucking mastiff whelp, flay and bowel him, stuff the body full of black and grey snails, roast a reasonable time, and baste with oil of spikenard, saffron, cinnamon, and honey, anoint with the dripping, working it in ——”“Yes, Bucklaw; but in the mean while, before the sprain is cured, nay, before the whelp is roasted, you will be caught and hung. Depend on it, the chase will be hard after Ravenswood. I wish we had made our place of rendezvous nearer to the coast.”“On my faith, then,” said Bucklaw, “I had best go off just now, and leave my horse for him. Stay — stay, he comes: I hear a horse’s feet.”“Are you sure there is only one?” said Craigengelt. “I fear there is a chase; I think I hear three or four galloping together. I am sure I hear more horses than one.”“Pooh, pooh, it is the wench of the house clattering to the well in her pattens. By my faith, Captain, you should give up both your captainship and your sec