“And who shall the French lord be, Elliot?” came another voice, a man’s this time, “though he need not cross the sea for you, the worse the luck.  Is it young Pothon de Xaintrailles?  Faith, he comes often enough to see how his new penoncel fares in my hands, and seems right curious in painting.”

It may be deemed strange that, even in this hour, I conceived in my heart a great mislike of this young French lord, how unjustly I soon well understood.

   “O, nae French lord for me, father,
   O, nae French lord for me,
   But I’ll ware my heart on a true-born Scot,
   And wi’ him I’ll cross the sea.”

“Oh, father, lo you, I can make as well as sing, for that is no word of the old ballant, but just came on to my tongue!”

They were now right close to me, and, half in fear, half in hope, I began to stir and rustle in the grass, for of my stifled groaning had hitherto come no profit.  Then I heard the horses stop.

“What stirring is that in the wood, father?  I am afraid,” came the girl’s voice.

“Belike a fox shifting his lair.  Push on, Maid Elliot.”  The horses advanced, when, by the blessing of the saints, the jackanapes woke in my breast.

The creature was used to run questing with a little wooden bowl he carried for largesse, to beg of horsemen for his mistress.  This trick of his he did now, hearing the horses’ tramp.  He leaped the ditch, and I suppose he ran in front of the steeds, shaking his little bowl, as was his wont.

“Oh, father,” sounded the girl’s voice, “see the little jackanapes!  Some travelling body has lost him.  Let me jump down and catch him.  Look, he has a little coat on, made like a herald’s tabard, and wears the colours of France.  Here, hold my reins.”

“No, lass.  Who can tell where, or who, his owner is?  Take you my reins, and I will bring you the beast.”

I heard him heavily dismount.

“It will not let itself be caught by a lame man,” he said; and he scrambled up the ditch bank, while the jackanapes fled to me, and then ran forward again, back and forth.

“Nom Dieu, whom have we here?” cried the man, in French.

I turned, and made such a sound with my mouth as I might, while the jackanapes nestled to my breast.

“Why do ye not speak, man?” he said again; and I turned my eyes on him, looking as pitifully as might be out of my blood-bedabbled face.

He was a burly man, great of growth, with fresh red cheeks, blue eyes, reddish hair, and a red beard, such as are many in the Border marches of my own country, the saints bless them for true men!  Withal he dragged his leg in walking, which he did with difficulty and much carefulness.  He “hirpled,” as we say, towards me very warily; then, seeing the rope bound about me, and the cloth in my mouth, he drew his dagger, but not to cut my bonds.  He was over canny for that, but he slit the string that kept the cursed gag in my mouth, and picked it out with his dagger point; and, oh the blessed taste of that first long draught of air, I cannot set it down in words!  “What, in the name of all the saints, make you here, in this guise?” he asked in French, but with a rude Border accent.