“Go to,” said his brother, “I will sing.  The old cook is monstrous deaf at any rate.”

“Sing,” said the Abbot, “I would hear you gladly.  So fair a face must be accompanied by the pipe of a nightingale.  Besides, we sorely need a tenor for the choir at Sweetheart.”

So, encouraged in this fashion, the daring Laurence began: 

    "Nae priests aboot me shall be seen
      To mumble prayers baith morn and e’en,
    I’ll swap them a’ for Mary Quean! 
      I’ll bid nae mess for me be sung,
    Dies ille, dies irae,
      Nor clanking bells for me be rung,
    Sic semper solet fieri! 
      I’ll gang my ways to Mary Quean."

“Ah, very good, very good, truly,” said the Abbot, thrusting his hand into his pouch beneath his gown, “here are two gold nobles for thee, sweet lad, and another for your brother, whose countenance methinks is somewhat less sweet.  You have sung well to the praise of our Lady!  What did you say your name was?  Of a surety, we must have you at Sweetheart.  And you have the Latin, too, as I heard in the hymn.  It is a thing most marvellous.  Verily, the very unction of grace must have visited you in your cradle!”

Laurence held down his head with all his native modesty, but the more open Sholto grew red in the face, hearing behind him the tittering and shoulder-shaking of the priests and lay servants in the Abbot’s train, and being sure that they would inform their master as soon as he passed on concerning the true import of Master Laurence’s song.  He was muttering in a rapid recitative, “Oh, wait—­wait, Laurie MacKim, till I get you on the Carlinwark shore.  A sore back and a stiff skinful of bones shalt thou have, and not an inch of hide on thee that is not black and blue.  Amen!” he added, stopping his maledictions quickly, for at that moment the Abbot came somewhat abruptly to the end of his speech.

The great churchman rode away on his fair white mule, with a smile and a backward wave of his hand.

“I will speak to my nephew concerning you this very day, my child,” he cried.

And the countenance of that most gentle youth kept its sweet innocence and angelic grace to the last, but that of Sholto was more dark and frowning than ever.

CHAPTER X

THE BRAES OF BALMAGHIE

By ten of the clock the braes of Balmaghie were a sight most glorious to look upon.  Well nigh twelve thousand men were gathered there, of whom five thousand were well-mounted knights and fully equipped men-at-arms, every man of them ready and willing to couch a lance or ride a charge.

The line of the tents which had been set up extended from opposite the Castle island of Thrieve to the kirk hill of Balmaghie.  Every knight’s following was strictly kept within its own pale, or fence of green wands set basket-wise, pointed and thrust into the earth like the spring traps of those who catch mowdiewarts.  Many also were the quarrels and bickerings of the squires who had been sent forward to choose and arrange the several encampments.  Nor were rough and tumble fights such as we have seen the MacKims indulging in, thought derogatory to the dignity of any, save belted knights only.