a roving blade like me; I
will not lose both the lass and the glass. Keeps her bed, does she?

"My dog and I we have a trick
To visit maids when they are sick;
When they are sick and like to die,
Oh, thither do come my dog and I.

"And when I die, as needs must hap,
Then bury me under the good ale tap;
With folded arms there let me lie
Cheek for jowl, my dog and I."

"Canst thou not be serious for a moment, neighbour Proudfute?" said the
glover; "I want a word of conversation with you."

"Serious!" answered his visitor; "why, I have been serious all this
day: I can hardly open my mouth, but something comes out about death, a
burial, or suchlike--the most serious subjects that I wot of."

"St. John, man!" said the glover, "art then fey?"

"No, not a whit: it is not my own death which these gloomy fancies
foretell. I have a strong horoscope, and shall live for fifty years to
come. But it is the case of the poor fellow--the Douglas man, whom I
struck down at the fray of St. Valentine's: he died last night; it is
that which weighs on my conscience, and awakens sad fancies. Ah, father
Simon, we martialists, that have spilt blood in our choler, have dark
thoughts at times; I sometimes wish that my knife had cut nothing but
worsted thrums."

"And I wish," said Simon, "that mine had cut nothing but buck's leather,
for it has sometimes cut my own fingers. But thou mayst spare thy
remorse for this bout: there was but one man dangerously hurt at the
affray, and it was he from whom Henry Smith hewed the hand, and he is
well recovered. His name is Black Quentin, one of Sir John Ramorny's
followers. He has been sent privately back to his own country of Fife."

"What, Black Quentin? Why, that is the very man that Henry and I, as
we ever keep close together, struck at in the same moment, only my blow
fell somewhat earlier. I fear further feud will come of it, and so does
the provost. And is he recovered? Why, then, I will be jovial, and since
thou wilt not let me see how Kate becomes her night gear, I will back to
the Griffin to my morrice dancers."

"Nay, stay but one instant. Thou art a comrade of Henry Wynd, and hast
done him the service to own one or two deeds and this last among others.
I would thou couldst clear him of other charges with which fame hath
loaded him."

"Nay, I will swear by the hilt of my sword they are as false as hell,
father Simon. What--blades and targets! s