“I tell you what it is, Captain Craigengelt,” said Bucklaw; “I shall keep my mind to myself on thse subjects, having too much respect for the memory of my venerable Aunt Girnington to put her lands and tenements in the way of committing treason against established authority.  Bring me King James to Edinburgh, Captain, with thirty thousand men at his back, and I’ll tell you what I think about his title; but as for running my neck into a noose, and my good broad lands into the statutory penalties, ‘in that case made and provided,’ rely upon it, you will find me no such fool.  So, when you mean to vapour with your hanger and your dram-cup in support of treasonable toasts, you must find your liquor and company elsewhere.”

“Well, then,” said Craigengelt, “name the toast yourself, and be it what it like, I’ll pledge you, were it a mile to the bottom.”

“And I’ll give you a toast that deserves it, my boy,” said Bucklaw; “what say you to Miss Lucy Ashton?”

“Up with it,” said the Captain, as he tossed off his brimmer, “the bonniest lass in Lothian!  What a pity the old sneckdrawing Whigamore, her father, is about to throw her away upon that rag of pride and beggary, the Master of Ravenswood!”

“That’s not quite so clear,” said Bucklaw, in a tone which, though it seemed indifferent, excited his companion’s eager curiosity; and not that only, but also his hope of working himself into soem sort of confidence, which might make him necessary to his patron, being by no means satisfied to rest on mere sufferance, if he could form by art or industry a more permanent title to his favour.

“I thought,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “that was a settled matter; they are continually together, and nothing else is spoken of betwixt Lammer Law and Traprain.”

“They may say what they please,” replied his patron, “but I know better; and I’ll give you Miss Lucy Ashton’s health again, my boy.”

“And I woul drink it on my knee,” said Craigengelt, “if I thought the girl had the spirit to jilt that d—­d son of a Spaniard.”

“I am to request you will not use the word ‘jilt’ and Miss Ashton’s name together,” said Bucklaw, gravely.

“Jilt, did I say?  Discard, my lad of acres—­by Jove, I meant to discard,” replied Craigengelt; “and I hope she’ll discard him like a small card at piquet, and take in the king of hearts, my boy!  But yet——­”

“But what?” said his patron.

“But yet I know for certain they are hours together alone, and in the woods and the fields.”

“That’s her foolish father’s dotage; that will be soon put out of the lass’s head, if it ever gets into it,” answered Bucklaw.  “And now fill your glass again, Captain; I am going to make you happy; I am going to let you into a secret—­a plot—­a noosing plot—­only the noose is but typical.”

“A marrying matter?” said Craigengelt, and his jaw fell as he asked the question, for he suspected that matrimony would render his situation at Girnington much more precarious than during the jolly days of his patron’s bachelorhood.