Chapter 20

Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide,
Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons,
To use my strength discreetly--I am reft
Of comrade and of counsel.
OLD PLAY.

In the gray of the next morning's dawn, there was a loud knocking at
the gate of the hostelrie; and those without, proclaiming that they
came in the name of the Regent, were instantly admitted. A moment or
two afterwards, Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bedside of our
travellers.

"Up! up!" he said, "there is no slumber where Murray hath work
ado."

Both sleepers sprung up, and began to dress themselves.

"You, old friend," said Wing-the-wind to Adam Woodcock, "must to horse
instantly, with this packet to the Monks of Kennaquhair; and with
this," delivering them as he spoke, "to the Knight of Avenel."

"As much as commanding the monks to annul their election, I'll warrant
me, of an Abbot," quoth Adam Woodcock, as he put the packets into his
bag, "and charging my master to see it done--To hawk at one brother
with another, is less than fair play, methinks."

"Fash not thy beard about it, old boy," said Michael, "but betake thee
to the saddle presently; for if these orders are not obeyed, there
will be bare walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary's, and it may be at the
Castle of Avenel to boot; for I heard my Lord of Morton loud with the
Regent, and we are at a pass that we cannot stand with him anent
trifles."

"But," said Adam, "touching the Abbot of Unreason--what say they to
that outbreak--An they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the
packets to Satan, and take the other side of the Border for my bield."

"Oh, that was passed over as a jest, since there was little harm
done.--But, hark thee, Adam," continued his comrade, "if there was a
dozen vacant abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, reason
or unreason, draw thou never one of their mitres over thy brows.--The
time is not fitting, man!--besides, our Maiden longs to clip the neck
of a fat churchman."

"She shall never sheer mine in that capacity," said the falconer,
while he knotted the kerchief in two or three double folds around his
sunburnt bull-neck, calling out at the same time, "Master Roland,
Master Roland, make haste! we must back to perch and mew, and, thank
Heaven, more than our own wit, with our bones whole, and without a
stab in the stomach."

"Nay, but," said Wing-the-wind, "the page goes not back with you; the
Regent has other employment for him."

"Saints and sorrows!" exclaimed the