“Gone to a wedding at Dunbar; I hope he’ll get a haggis to his dinner”; and he began to sing the old Scottish song: 

“There was a haggis in Dunbar, Fal de ral, etc.  Mony better and few waur, Fal de ral,” etc.

“I am much obliged to Mr. Cordery for his attentions,” said the Lord Keeper; “and pray who has had the charge of you while I was away, Mr. Henry?”

“Norman and Bob Wilson, forbye my own self.”

“A groom and a gamekeeper, and your own silly self—­proper guardians for a young advocate!  Why, you will never know any statutes but those against shooting red-deer, killing salmon, and——­”

“And speaking of red-game,” said the young scapegrace, interrupting his father without scruple or hesitation, “Norman has shot a buck, and I showed the branches to Lucy, and she says they have but eight tynes; and she says that you killed a deer with Lord Bittlebrains’s hounds, when you were west away, and, do you know, she says it had ten tynes; is it true?”

“It may have had twenty, Henry, for what I know; but if you go to that gentleman, he can tell you all about it.  Go speak to him, Henry; it is the Master of Ravenswood.”

While they conversed thus, the father and son were standing by the fire; and the Master, having walked towards the upper end of the apartment, stood with his back towards them, apparently engaged in examining one of the paintings.  The boy ran up to him, and pulled him by the skirt of the coat with the freedom of a spoilt child, saying, “I say, sir, if you please to tell me——­” but when the Master turned round, and Henry saw his face, he became suddenly and totally disconcerted; walked two or three steps backward, and still gazed on Ravenswood with an air of fear and wonder, which had totally banished from his features their usual expression of pert vivacity.

“Come to me, young gentleman,” said the Master, “and I will tell you all I know about the hunt.”

“Go to the gentleman, Henry,” said his father; “you are not used to be so shy.”

But neither invitation nor exhortation had any effect on the boy.  On the contrary, he turned round as soon as he had completed his survey of the Master, and walking as cautiously as if he had been treading upon eggs, he glided back to his father, and pressed as close to him as possible.  Ravenswood, to avoid hearing the dispute betwixt the father and the overindulged boy, thought it most polite to turn his face once more towards the pictures, and pay no attention to what they said.

“Why do you not speak to the Master, you little fool?” said the Lord Keeper.

“I am afraid,” said Henry, in a very low tone of voice.

“Afraid, you goose!” said his father, giving him a slight shake by the collar.  “What makes you afraid?”

“What makes him to like the picture of Sir Malise Ravenswood then?” said the boy, whispering.

“What picture, you natural?” said his father.  “I used to think you only a scapegrace, but I believe you will turn out a born idiot.”