When the military evolutions were over, a loud shout announced that the competitors were about to step forth for the shooting of the popinjay—­ the figure of a bird suspended to a pole.  When a slender young man, dressed with great simplicity, yet with an air of elegance, his dark-green cloak thrown back over his shoulder, approached the station with his fusee in his hand, there was a murmur among the spectators.

“Ewhow, sirs, to see his father’s son at the like o’ thae fearless follies!” said some of the more rigid, but the generality were content to wish success to the son of a deceased Presbyterian leader.  Their wishes were gratified.  The green adventurer made the first palpable hit of the day, and two only of those who followed succeeded—­the first, a young man of low rank, who kept his face muffled in a grey cloak; and the second, a gallant young cavalier, remarkably handsome, who had been in close attendance on Lady Margaret and Miss Bellenden.

But the applause, even of those whose wishes had favoured Lord Evandale, were at the third trial transferred to his triumphant rival, who was led by four of the duke’s friends to his presence, passing in front of Lady Margaret and her granddaughter.  The captain of the popinjay (as the victor was called) and Miss Bellenden coloured like crimson, as the latter returned the low inclination he made, even to the saddlebow, in passing her.

“Do you know that young person?” said Lady Margaret.

“I—­I—­have seen him, madam, at my uncle’s, and—­and—­elsewhere, occasionally,” stammered Edith.

“I hear them say around me,” said Lady Margaret, “that the young spark is the nephew of old Milnwood.”

“The son of the late Colonel Morton of Milnwood, who commanded a regiment of horse with great courage at Dunbar and Inverkeithing,” said a gentleman beside Lady Margaret.

“Ay, and before that, who fought for the Covenanters, both at Marston Moor and Philipshaugh,” said Lady Margaret, sighing.  “His son ought to dispense with intruding himself into the company of those to whom his name must bring unpleasing recollections.”

“You forget, my dear lady, he comes here to discharge suit and service in name for his uncle.  He is an old miser, and although probably against the grain, sends the young gentleman to save pecuniary pains and penalties.  The youngster is, I suppose, happy enough to escape for the day from the dullness of the old home at Milnwood.”

The company now dispersed, excepting such as, having tried their dexterity at the popinjay, were, by ancient custom, obliged to partake of a grace-cup with their captain, who, though he spared the cup himself, took care it should go round with due celerity among the rest.

On leaving the alehouse, a stranger observed to Morton that he was riding towards Milnwood, and asked for the advantage of his company.

“Certainly,” said Morton, though there was a gloomy and relentless severity in the man’s manner from which he recoiled, and they rode off together.