’There goes Godfrey de Bulloin.  I tell you, Jamie, ’tis well you are come!  Now have I some one to speak with.  Ever since Harry borrowed my Lady of Westmoreland’s book of the Holy War, he has not had a word to fling at me.’

‘Ah!’ said Sir James, ’I saw a book, indeed, of the Holy Land!  It would tempt him too much to hear how near the Border it dwells!  What was it named, Malcolm?’

‘The “Itinerarium of Adamnanus,"’ replied Malcolm, blushing at the sudden appeal.

‘Ha!  I’ve heard of it,’ cried the English knight.  ’I sent to half the convent libraries to beg the loan when Gilbert de Lannoy set forth for the survey of Palestine.  Does the Monk of Iona tell what commodity of landing there may be on the coast?’

Malcolm had the sea-port towns at his fingers’ ends, and having in the hard process of translation, and reading and re-reading one of the few books that came into his hands, nearly mastered the contents, he was able to reply with promptness and precision, although with much amazement, for

   ’Much he marvelled a knight of pride
   Like book-bosomed priest should ride;’

nor had he ever before found his accomplishments treated as aught but matters of scorn among the princes and nobles with whom he had occasionally been thrown.

‘Good! good!’ said Sir Harry at last.  ’Well read, and clearly called to mind.  The stripling will do you credit, James.  Where have you studied, fair cousin?’

Cousin! was it English fashion to make a cousin of everybody?  But gentle, humble Malcolm had no resentment in him, and felt gratified at the friendly tone of so grand and manly-looking a knight.  ‘At home,’ he answered, ‘with a travelling scholar who had studied at Padua and Paris.’

’That is where you Scots love to haunt!  But know you how they are served there?  I have seen the gibbet where the Mayor of Paris hung two clerks’ sons for loving his daughters over well!’

‘The clerks’ twa sons of Owsenford that were foully slain!’ cried Malcolm, his face lighting up.  ‘Oh, Sir, have you seen their gibbet?’

‘What? were they friends of yours?’ asked Hal, much amused, and shaking his head merrily at Sir James.  ‘Ill company, I fear—­’

‘Only in a ballad,’ said Malcolm, colouring, ’that tells how at Yuletide the ghosts came to their mother with their hats made of the birk that grew at the gates of Paradise.’

‘A rare ballad must that be!’ exclaimed Hal.  ’Canst sing it?  Or are you weary?—­Marmion, prithee tell some of the fellows to bring my harp from the baggage.’

‘His own harp is with ours,’ said Sir James; ’he will make a better figure therewith.’