It is and is not —’tis the thing I sought for,

Have kneel’d for, pray’d for, risk’d my fame and life for,

And yet it is not — no more than the shadow

Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror,

Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance

Which it presents in form and lineament.

Old play.

The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly acquainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace’s farther orders; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station,— instructions which Adam Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand —“For your beds,” he said, “you must go to the hostelry of Saint Michael’s, in respect the palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.”

No sooner was the usher’s back turned than Adam exclaimed with all the glee of eager curiosity, “And now, Master Roland, the news — the news — come unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings — What says the Regent? asks he for Adam Woodcock?— and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?”

“All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “and for the rest — But, hey-day, what! have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet?”

“And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced rogue that he is, began to inquire what Popish trangam you were wearing.— By the mass, the metal would have been confiscated for conscience-sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mistress Lilias bears about on her shoes in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles — This comes of carrying Popish nicknackets about you.”

“The jade!” exclaimed Roland Graeme, “has she melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, which will set off such a garnish nearly as well as a cow’s might?— But, hang her, let her keep them — many a dog’s trick have I played old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a remembrance. Do you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, when old Wingate and she were to breakfast together on Easter morning?”

“In troth do I, Master Roland — the major-domo’s mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for the whole morning afterwards, and any other page in your room would have tasted the discipline of the porter’s lodge for it. But my Lady’s favour stood between your skin and many a jerking — Lord send you may be the better for her protection in such matters!”

“I am least grateful for it, Adam! and I am glad you put me in mind of it.”

“Well, but the news, my young master,” said Woodcock, “spell me the tidings — what are we to fly at next?— what did the Regent say to you?”

“Nothing that I am to repeat again,” said Roland Graeme, shaking his head.

“Why, hey-day,” said Adam, “how prudent we are become all of a sudden! You have advanced rarely in brief space, Master Roland. You have well nigh had your head broken, and you have gained your gold chain, and you have made an enemy, Master Usher to wit, with his two legs like hawks’ perches, and you have had audience of the first man in the realm, and bear as much mystery in your brow, as if you had flown in the court-sky ever since you were hatched. I believe, in my soul, you would run with a piece of the egg-shell on your head like the curlews, which (I would we were after them again) we used to call whaups in the Halidome and its neighbourhood. But sit thee down, boy; Adam Woodcock was never the lad to seek to enter into forbidden secrets — sit thee down, and I will go and fetch the vivers — I know the butler and the pantler of old.”

The good-natured falconer set forth upon his errand, busying himself about procuring their refreshment; and, during his absence, Roland Graeme abandoned himself to the strange, complicated, and yet heart-stirring reflections, to which the events of the morning had given rise. Yesterday he was of neither mark nor likelihood; a vagrant boy, the attendant on a relative, of whose sane judgment he himself had not the highest opinion; but now he had become, he knew not why, or wherefore, or to what extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, of some important state secret, in the safe keeping of which the Regent himself was concerned. It did not diminish from, but rather added to the interest of a situation so unexpected, that Roland himself did not perfectly understand wherein he stood committed by the state secrets, in which he had unwittingly become participator. On the contrary, he felt like one who looks on a romantic landscape, of which he sees the features for the first time, and then obscured with mist and driving tempest. The imperfect glimpse which the eye catches of rocks, trees, and other objects around him, adds double dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are left to imagination.

But mortals, especially at the well-appetized age which precedes twenty years, are seldom so much engaged either by real or conjectural subjects of speculation, but that their earthly wants claim their hour of attention. And with many a smile did our hero, so the reader may term him if he will, hail the re-appearance of his friend Adam Woodcock, bearing on one platter a tremendous portion of boiled beef, and on another a plentiful allowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call lang-kale. A groom followed with bread, salt, and the other means of setting forth a meal; and when they had both placed on the oaken table what they bore in their hands, the falconer observed, that since he knew the court, it had got harder and harder every day to the poor gentlemen and yeoman retainers, but that now it was an absolute flaying of a flea for the hide and tallow. Such thronging to the wicket, and such churlish answers, and such bare beef-bones, such a shouldering at the buttery-hatch and cellarage, and nought to be gained beyond small insufficient single ale, or at best with a single straike of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of water —“By the mass, though, my young friend,” said he, while he saw the food disappearing fast under Roland’s active exertions, “it is not so to well to lament for former times as to take the advantage of the present, else we are like to lose on both sides.”

So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair towards the table, unsheathed his knife, (for every one carried that minister of festive distribution for himself,) and imitated his young companion’s example, who for the moment had lost his anxiety for the future in the eager satisfaction of an appetite sharpened by youth and abstinence.

In truth, they made, though the materials were sufficiently simple, a very respectable meal, at the expense of the royal allowance; and Adam Woodcock, notwithstanding the deliberate censure which he had passed on the household beer of the palace, had taken the fourth deep draught of the black jack ere he remembered him that he had spoken in its dispraise. Flinging himself jollily and luxuriously back in an old danske elbow-chair, and looking with careless glee towards the page, extending at the same time his right leg, and stretching the other easily over it, he reminded his companion that he had not yet heard the ballad which he had made for the Abbot of Unreason’s revel. And accordingly he struck merrily up with

“The Pope, that pagan full of pride,

Has blinded us full lang.”———

Roland Graeme, who felt no great delight, as may be supposed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its subject, began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it around his shoulders, an action which instantly interrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock.

“Where the vengeance are you going now,” he said, “thou restless boy?— Thou hast quicksilver in the veins of thee to a certainty, and canst no more abide any douce and sensible communing, than a hoodless hawk would keep perched on my wrist!”

“Why, Adam,” replied the page, “if you must needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at this fair city. One may as well be still mewed up in the old castle of the lake, if one is to sit the live-long night between four walls, and hearken to old ballads.”

“It is a new ballad — the Lord help thee!” replied Adam, “and that one of the best that ever was matched with a rousing chorus.”

“Be it so,” said the page, “I will hear it another day, when the rain is dashing against the windows, and there is neither steed stamping, nor spur jingling, nor feather waving in the neighbourhood to mar my marking it well. But, even now, I want to be in the world, and to look about me.”

“But the never a stride shall you go without me,” said the falconer, “until the Regent shall take you whole and sound off my hand; and so, if you will, we may go to the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, and there you will see company enough, but through the casement, mark you me; for as to rambling through the street to seek Seytons and Leslies, and having a dozen holes drilled in your new jacket with rapier and poniard, I will yield no way to it.”

“To the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, then, with all my heart,” said the page; and they left the palace accordingly, rendered to the sentinels at the gate, who had now taken their posts for the evening, a strict account of their names and business, were dismissed through a small wicket of the close-barred portal, and soon reached the inn or hostelrie of Saint Michael, which stood in a large court-yard, off the main street, close under the descent of the Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and uncomfortable, resembled rather an Eastern caravansary, where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged to supply themselves with every thing else, than one of our modern inns;

Where not one comfort shall to those be lost,

Who never ask, or never feel, the cost.

But still, to the inexperienced eye of Roland Graeme, the bustle and confusion of this place of public resort, furnished excitement and amusement. In the large room, into which they had rather found their own way than been ushered by mine host, travellers and natives of the city entered and departed, met and greeted, gamed or drank together, forming the strongest contrast to the stern and monotonous order and silence with which matters were conducted in the well-ordered household of the Knight of Avenel. Altercation of every kind, from brawling to jesting, was going on amongst the groups around them, and yet the noise and mingled voices seemed to disturb no one and indeed to be noticed by no others than by those who composed the group to which the speaker belonged.

The falconer passed through the apartment to a projecting latticed window, which formed a sort of recess from the room itself; and having here ensconced himself and his companion, he called for some refreshments; and a tapster, after he had shouted for the twentieth time, accommodated him with the remains of a cold capon and a neat’s tongue, together with a pewter stoup of weak French vin-depays. “Fetch a stoup of brandy-wine, thou knave — We will be jolly to-night, Master Roland,” said he, when he saw himself thus accommodated, “and let care come tomorrow.”

But Roland had eaten too lately to enjoy the good cheer; and feeling his curiosity much sharper than his appetite, he made it his choice to look out of the lattice, which overhung a large yard, surrounded by the stables of the hostelrie, and fed his eyes on the busy sight beneath, while Adam Woodcock, after he had compared his companion to the “Laird of Macfarlane’s geese, who liked their play better than their meat,” disposed of his time with the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally humming the burden of his birth-strangled ballad, and beating time to it with his fingers on the little round table. In this exercise he was frequently interrupted by the exclamations of his companion, as he saw something new in the yard beneath, to attract and interest him.

It was a busy scene, for the number of gentlemen and nobles who were now crowded into the city, had filled all spare stables and places of public reception with their horses and military attendants. There were some score of yeomen, dressing their own or their masters’ horses in the yard, whistling, singing, laughing, and upbraiding each other, in a style of wit which the good order of Avenel Castle rendered strange to Roland Graeme’s ears. Others were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning those of their masters. One fellow, having just bought a bundle of twenty spears, was sitting in a corner, employed in painting the white staves of the weapons with yellow and vermillion. Other lacqueys led large stag-hounds, or wolf-dogs, of noble race, carefully muzzled to prevent accidents to passengers. All came and went, mixed together and separated, under the delighted eye of the page, whose imagination had not even conceived a scene so gaily diversified with the objects he had most pleasure in beholding; so that he was perpetually breaking the quiet reverie of honest Woodcock, and the mental progress which he was making in his ditty, by exclaiming, “Look here, Adam — look at the bonny bay horse — Saint Anthony, what, a gallant forehand he hath got!— and see the goodly gray, which yonder fellow in the frieze-jacket is dressing as awkwardly as if he had never touched aught but a cow — I would I were nigh him to teach him his trade!— And lo you, Adam, the gay Milan armour that the yeoman is scouring, all steel and silver, like our Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate makes such account — And see to yonder pretty wench, Adam, who comes tripping through them all with her milk-pail — I warrant me she has had a long walk from the loaning; she has a stammel waistcoat, like your favourite Cicely Sunderland, Master Adam!”

“By my hood, lad,” answered the falconer, “it is well for thee thou wert brought up where grace grew. Even in the Castle of Avenel thou wert a wild-blood enough, but hadst thou been nurtured here, within a flight-shot of the Court, thou hadst been the veriest crack-hemp of a page that ever wore feather in thy bonnet or steel by thy side: truly, I wish it may end well with thee.”

“Nay, but leave thy senseless humming and drumming, old Adam, and come to the window ere thou hast drenched thy senses in the pint-pot there. See here comes a merry minstrel with his crowd, and a wench with him, that dances with bells at her ankles; and see, the yeomen and pages leave their horses and the armour they were cleaning, and gather round, as is very natural, to hear the music. Come, old Adam, we will thither too.”

“You shall call me cutt if I do go down,” said Adam; “you are near as good minstrelsy as the stroller can make, if you had but the grace to listen to it.”

“But the wench in the stammel waistcoat is stopping too, Adam — by heaven, they are going to dance! Frieze-jacket wants to dance with stammel waistcoat, but she is coy and recusant.”

Then suddenly changing his tone of levity into one of deep interest and surprise, he exclaimed, “Queen of Heaven! what is it that I see!” and then remained silent.

The sage Adam Woodcock, who was in a sort of languid degree amused with the page’s exclamations, even while he professed to despise them, became at length rather desirous to set his tongue once more a-going, that he might enjoy the superiority afforded by his own intimate familiarity with all the circumstances which excited in his young companion’s mind so much wonderment.

“Well, then,” he said at last, “what is it you do see, Master Roland, that you have become mute all of a sudden?”

Roland returned no answer.

“I say, Master Roland Graeme,” said the falconer, “it is manners in my country for a man to speak when he is spoken to.”

Roland Graeme remained silent.

“The murrain is in the boy,” said Adam Woodcock, “he has stared out his eyes, and talked his tongue to pieces, I think.”

The falconer hastily drank off his can of wine, and came to Roland, who stood like a statue, with his eyes eagerly bent on the court-yard, though Adam Woodcock was unable to detect amongst the joyous scenes which it exhibited aught that could deserve such devoted attention.

“The lad is mazed!” said the falconer to himself.

But Roland Graeme had good reasons for his surprise, though they were not such as he could communicate to his companion.

The touch of the old minstrel’s instrument, for he had already begun to play, had drawn in several auditors from the street when one entered the gate of the yard, whose appearance exclusively arrested the attention of Roland Graeme. He was of his own age, or a good deal younger, and from his dress and bearing might be of the same rank and calling, having all the air of coxcombry and pretension, which accorded with a handsome, though slight and low figure, and an elegant dress, in part hid by a large purple cloak. As he entered, he cast a glance up towards the windows, and, to his extreme astonishment, under the purple velvet bonnet and white feather, Roland recognized the features so deeply impressed on his memory, the bright and clustered tresses, the laughing full blue eyes, the well-formed eyebrows, the nose, with the slightest possible inclination to be aquiline, the ruby lip, of which an arch and half-suppressed smile seemed the habitual expression — in short, the form and face of Catherine Seyton; in man’s attire, however, and mimicking, as it seemed, not unsuccessfully, the bearing of a youthful but forward page.

“Saint George and Saint Andrew!” exclaimed the amazed Roland Graeme to himself, “was there ever such an audacious quean!— she seems a little ashamed of her mummery too, for she holds the lap of her cloak to her face, and her colour is heightened — but Santa Maria, how she threads the throng, with as firm and bold a step as if she had never tied petticoat round her waist!— Holy Saints! she holds up her riding-rod as if she would lay it about some of their ears, that stand most in her way — by the hand of my father! she bears herself like the very model of pagehood.— Hey! what! sure she will not strike frieze-jacket in earnest?” But he was not long left in doubt; for the lout whom he had before repeatedly noticed, standing in the way of the b............