Chapter 23

Give me a morsel on the greensward rather,
Coarse as you will the cooking--Let the fresh spring
Bubble beside my napkin--and the free birds
Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to bough,
To claim the crumbs I leave for perquisites--
Your prison feasts I like not.
THE WOODSMAN, A DRAMA.

A recess in the vestibule was enlightened by a small window, at which
Roland Graeme stationed himself to mark the departure of the lords. He
could see their followers mustering on horseback under their
respective banners--the western sun glancing on their corslets and
steel-caps as they moved to and fro, mounted or dismounted, at
intervals. On the narrow space betwixt the castle and the water, the
Lords Ruthven and Lindesay were already moving slowly to their boats,
accompanied by the Lady of Lochleven, her grandson, and their
principal attendants. They took a ceremonious leave of each other, as
Roland could discern by their gestures, and the boats put oft from
their landing-place; the boatmen stretched to their oars, and they
speedily diminished upon the eye of the idle gazer, who had no better
employment than to watch their motions. Such seemed also the
occupation of the Lady Lochleven and George Douglas, who, returning
from the landing-place, looked frequently back to the boats, and at
length stopped as if to observe their progress under the window at
which Roland Graeme was stationed.--As they gazed on the lake, he
could hear the lady distinctly say, "And she has bent her mind to save
her life at the expense of her kingdom?"

"Her life, madam!" replied her son; "I know not who would dare to
attempt it in the castle of my father. Had I dreamt that it was with
such purpose that Lindesay insisted on bringing his followers hither,
neither he nor they should have passed the iron gate of Lochleven
castle."

"I speak not of private slaughter, my son, but of open trial,
condemnation, and execution; for with such she has been threatened,
and to such threats she has given way. Had she not more of the false
Gusian blood than of the royal race of Scotland in her veins, she had
bidden them defiance to their teeth--But it is all of the same
complexion, and meanness is the natural companion of profligacy.--I am
discharged, forsooth, from intruding on her gracious presence this
evening. Go thou, my son, and render the usual service of the meal to
this unqueened Queen."

"So please you, lady mother," said Douglas," I care not greatly to
approach her presence."

"Thou art right, my son; and therefore I trust thy prudence, even
because I have noted thy caution. She is like an isle on the ocean,
surrounded with shelves and