lts
from the rock scarps of Colvend, scramblers after wild birds' nests on
perilous heuchs, and poachers on the deer preserves of Cloak Moss, as
often as they had a chance. Then the Earl, having zealously commended
the particular Barnbacle or Munches who led them, all would be peace
and concord, till out of the crowd behind would issue the growling
comment of his uncle, the Abbot of Dulce Cor.

"A close-fisted old thief! The saints pity him not! He will surely fry
in Hell! Last Shrovetide did he not drive off five of our best milch
cows, and hath steadfastly refused to restore them? _Anathema
maranatha_ to his vile body and condemned be his huckstering soul!"

Needless to add, every word of this comment and addition was heard by
the person most concerned.

Or it might be, "Henry A'milligan--his mother's son, God wot. And his
father's, too, doubtless--if only one could know who his father was.
The devil dwell in his fat belly! _Exorciso te_--"

So it went on till the temper of the young lord of Galloway was
strained almost to the breaking point, for he wished not to cause a
disturbance among so great a company and on a day of such renown.

At last they came to the muster of the clean-run limber lads of
Kelton, artificers mostly, and stated retainers of the castle and its
various adjacent bourgs of Carlinwark, Rhonehouse, Gelston, and Mains
of Thrieve.

Some one at this point took the Abbot by the elbow and shouted in his
ear that this was the company he desired to see. Then he rode forward
to the left hand of his nephew, as Malise and he passed slowly down
the line examining the weapons.

"Laurence MacKim, I would see Laurence MacKim!" cried the Abbot,
holding up his hand as if in the chapel of his monastery. The Earl
stopped, and Malise turned right about on his heel in great
astonishment.

"What wants old marrowbones with our Laurie?" he muttered; "surely he
cannot have gotten into mischief with the lasses already. But I
kenna--I kenna. When I was sixteen I can mind--I can mind. And the
loon may well be his father's own son."

And Malise, the man of brawn, watched out of his quiet grey eyes the
face of the Abbot William, wondering what was to come next.

Laurence stood forth at a word of command from the Earl. He saluted,
and then dropped the point of his sword meekly upon the ground. His
white-and-rose cherub's face expressed the utmost goodness and
innocence.

"Dear kinsman," said the Abbot to his neph