Edinburgh smiths think not shame to put out of their hands.'

'Aha, now would I lay a gold crown thou hast had a quarrel with some Edinburgh "burn-the-wind"1 upon that very ground?'

'A quarrel! no, father,' replied the Perth armourer, 'but a measuring of swords with such a one upon St. Leonard's Crags, for the honour of my bonny city, I confess. Surely you do not think I would quarrel with a brother craftsman?'

'Ah, to a surety, no. But how did your brother craftsman come off?'

'Why, as one with a sheet of paper on his bosom might come off from the stroke of a lance; or rather, indeed, he came not off at all, for, when I left him, he was lying in the Hermit's Lodge daily expecting death, for which Father Gervis said he was in heavenly preparation.'

'Well, any more measuring of weapons?' said the glover.

'Why, truly, I fought an Englishman at Berwick besides, on the old question of the supremacy, as they call it I am sure you would not have me slack at that debate? and I had the luck to hurt him on the left knee.'

'Well done for St. Andrew! to it again. Whom next had you to deal with?' said Simon, laughing at the exploits of his pacific friend.

'I fought a Scotchman in the Torwood,' answered

1 'Burn-the-wind,' an old cant term for blacksmith, appears in Burns

Then burnewin came on like death,

At every chaup, etc.

Henry Smith, 'upon a doubt which was the better swordsman, which, you are aware, could not be known or decided without a trial. The poor fellow lost two fingers.'

'Pretty well for the most peaceful lad in Perth, who never touches a sword but in the way of his profession. Well, anything more to tell us?'

'Little; for the drubbing of a Highlandman is a thing not worth mentioning.'

'For what didst thou drub him, O man of peace?' inquired the glover.

'For nothing that I can remember,' replied the smith, 'except his presenting himself on the south side of Stirling Bridge.'

'Well, here is to thee, and thou art welcome to me. after all these exploits. Conachar, bestir thee. Let the cans clink, lad, and thou shalt have a cup of the nutbrown for thyself, my boy.'

Conachar poured out the good liquor for his master and for Catharine with due observance. But that done, he set the flagon on the table and sat down.

'How now, sirrah! be these your manners? Fill to my guest, the worshipful Master Henry Smith.'

'Master Smith may fill for himself, if he wishes for liquor,' answered the youthful Celt. 'The son of my father has demeaned himself enough already for one evening.'

'That's well crowed for a cockerel,' said Henry; 'but thou art so far right, my lad, that the man deserves to die of thirst who will not drink without a cupbearer.'

But his entertainer took not the contumacy of the young apprentice with so much patience. 'Now, by my

honest word, and by the best glove I ever made,' said Simon, 'thou shalt help him with liquor from that cup and flagon, if thee and I are to abide under one roof.'

Conachar arose sullenly upon hearing this threat, and, approaching the smith, who had just taken the tankard in his hand, and was raising it to his head, he contrived to stumble against him and jostle him so awkwardly, that the foaming ale gushed over his face, person, and dress. Good-natured as the smith, in spite of his warlike propensities, really was in the utmost degree, his patience failed under such a provocation. He seized the young man's throat, being the part which came readiest to his grasp, as Conachar arose from the pretended stumble, and pressing it severely as he cast the lad from him, exclaimed, 'Had this been in another place, young gallows-bird, I had stowed the lugs out of thy head, as I have done to some of thy clan before thee.'

Conachar recovered his feet with the activity of a tiger, and exclaiming, 'Never shall you live to make that boast again!' drew a short, sharp knife from his bosom, and, springing on Henry Smith, attempted to plunge it into his body over the collar-bone, which must have been a mortal wound. But the object of this violence was so ready to defend himself by striking up the assailant's hand, that the blow only glanced on the bone, and scarce drew blood. To wrench the dagger from the boy's hand, and to secure him with a grasp like that of his own iron vice, was, for the powerful smith, the work of a single moment. Conachar felt himself at once in the absolute power of the formidable antagonist whom he had provoked; he became deadly pale, as he had been the moment before glowing red, and stood mute with shame

and fear, until, relieving him from his powerful hold, the smith quietly said, 'It is well for thee that thou canst not make me angry; thou art but a boy, and I, a grown man, ought not to have provoked thee. But let this be a warning.'

Conachar stood an instant as if about to reply, and then left the room, ere Simon had collected himself enough to speak. Dorothy was running hither and thither for salves and healing herbs. Catharine had swooned at the sight of the trickling blood.

'Let me depart, father Simon,' said Henry Smith, mournfully; 'I might have guessed I should have my old luck, and spread strife and bloodshed where I would wish most to bring peace and happiness. Care not for me. Look to poor Catharine; the fright of such an affray hath killed her, and all through my fault.'

'Thy fault, my son! It was the fault of yon Highland cateran,1 whom it is my curse to be cumbered with; but he shall go back to his glens to-morrow, or taste the tolbooth of the burgh. An assault upon the life of his master's guest in his master's house! It breaks all bonds between us. But let me see to thy wound.'

'look to

'Catharine!' repeated the armourer — 'look Catharine.'

'Dorothy will see to her,' said Simon; 'surprise and fear kill not; skenes and dirks do. And she is not more the daughter of my blood than thou, my dear Henry, art the son of my affections. Let me see the wound. The skene-occle is an ugly weapon in a Highland hand.'

'I mind it no more than the scratch of a wildcat,' said the armourer; 'and now that the colour is coming to

1 See Note 8.

Catharine's cheek again, you shall see me a sound man in a moment.' He turned to a corner in which hung a small mirror, and hastily took from his purse some dry lint to apply to the slight wound he had received. As he unloosed the leathern jacket from his neck and shoulders, the manly and muscular form which they displayed was not more remarkable than the fairness of his skin, where it had not, as in hands and face, been exposed to the effects of rough weather and of his laborious trade. He hastily applied some lint to stop the bleeding, and a little water having removed all other marks of the fray, he buttoned his doublet anew, and turned again to the table, where Catharine, still pale and trembling, was, however, recovered from her fainting-fit.

'Would you but grant me your forgiveness for having offended you in the very first hour of my return? The lad was foolish to provoke me, and yet I was more foolish to be provoked by such as he. Your father blames me not, Catharine, and cannot you forgive me?'

'I have no power to forgive,' answered Catharine, 'what I have no title to resent. If my father chooses to have his house made the scene of night-brawls, I must witness them I cannot help myself. Perhaps it was wrong in me to faint and interrupt, it may be, the further progress of a fair fray. My apology is, that I cannot bear the sight of blood.'

'And is this the manner,' said her father, 'in which you receive my friend after his long absence? My friend, did I say? nay, my son. He escapes being murdered by a fellow whom I will to-morrow clear this house of, and you treat him as if he had done wrong in dashing from him the snake which was about to sting him!'