Here Stroke covers his face with his hands, weeping silently, and—­and there is an awkward pause.

("Go on—­’Still have me.’”)

("So it is.”) “Weep not, my royal scone—­”

("Scion.”)

“Weep not, my royal scion, havest thou not still me?”

“Well said, Sir Joseph,” cries Stroke, dashing the sign of weakness from his face.  “I still have many brave fellows, and with their help I shall be master of this proud town.”

“And then ghost we to fair Edinburgh?”

“Ay, ’tis so, but, Sir Joseph, thinkest thou these burghers love the Stuart not?”

“’Nay, methinks they are true to thee, but their starch commander—­(give me my time, this is a lang ane,) but their arch commander is thy bitterest foe.  Vile spoon that he is! (It’s no spoon, it’s spawn.)”

“Thou meanest the craven Cathro?”

“Methinks ay. (I like thae short anes.)”

“’Tis well!” says Stroke, sternly.  “That man hath ever slipped between me and my right.  His time will come.”

“He floppeth thee—­he flouteth thee from the battlements.”

“Ha, ’tis well!”

("You’ve said that already.”)

("I say it twice.”)

("That’s what aye puts me wrang.) Ghost thou to meet the proud Lady
Grizel to-night?”

“Ay.”

“Ghost thou alone?”

“Ay.”

("What easy anes you have!) I fear it is not chancey for thee to go.”

“I must dree my dreed.”

“These women is kittle cattle.”

“The Stuart hath ever a soft side for them.  Ah, my trusty foster-brother, knowest thou not what it is to love?”

“Alas, I too have had my fling. (Does Grizel kiss your hand yet?)”

“(No, she winna, the limmer.) Sir Joseph, I go to her.”

“Methinks she is a haughty onion.  I prithee go not to-night.”

“I have given my word.”

“Thy word is a band.”

“Adieu, my friend.”

“Methinks thou ghost to thy damn. (Did we no promise Elspeth there should be no swearing?)”

The raft Vick Lan Vohr is dragged to the shore, and Stroke steps on board, a proud solitary figure.  “Farewell!” he cries hoarsely, as he seizes the oar.

“Farewell, my leech,” answers Corp, and then helps him to disembark.  Their hands chance to meet, and Stroke’s is so hot that Corp quails.

“Tommy,” he says, with a shudder, “do you—­you dinna think it’s a’ true, do you?” But the ill-fated prince only gives him a warning look and plunges into the mazes of the forest.  For a long time silence reigns over the Den.  Lights glint fitfully, a human voice imitates the plaintive cry of the peewit, cautious whistling follows, comes next the clash of arms, and the scream of one in the death-throes, and again silence falls.  Stroke emerges near the Reekie Broth Pot, wiping his sword and muttering, “Faugh! it drippeth!” At the same moment the air is filled with music of