sp which she refused to loosen, till Sholto had promised to
walk by the side of her pony and allow her to net her trembling
fingers into the thick of his clustering curls.

For the armourer's son was, in those simple days, an ancient ally and
playmate of the little noble damsel, and he dreamed, and not without
some excuse, that in an age when every man's strong arm and brave
heart constituted his fortune, the time might come when he might even
himself to Maud Lindesay, baron's daughter though she were. For both
his father and himself were already high in favour with their master
the Earl, who could create knighthoods and dispose lordships as easily
as (and much more effectually and finally than) the King himself.

The emissaries of the Chancellor and Sir Alexander Livingston did not
accompany the others back to the castle after the short and haughty
answer which they had received, but with their followers returned the
way they had come to their several headquarters, giving, as was
natural between foes so bitter, a wide berth to each other on their
northward journeys to Edinburgh and Stirling.

"What think you of this day's doings, Mistress Lindesay?" asked Sholto
as he swung along beside the train with little Margaret Douglas's hand
still clutching the thick curls at the back of his neck.

The maid of honour tossed her shapely head, and, with a little pretty
upward curl of the lip, exclaimed: "'Twas as stupid a tourney as ever
I saw. There was not a single handsome knight nor yet one beautiful
lady on the field this day."

"What of James of Avondale when knights are being judged?" said
Sholto, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, boyish and characteristic;
"he at least looked often enough in your direction to prove that he
did not agree with you about the lack of the beautiful lady."

At this Maud Lindesay elevated her pretty nostrils yet further into
the air. "James of Avondale, indeed--" she said, "he is not to be
compared either for dignity or strength with the Earl himself, nor yet
with many others whom I know of lesser estate."

"Sholto MacKim," cried the clear piping voice of the little Margaret,
"how in the world am I to keep hold of your hair if you shake and jerk
your head about like that? If you do not keep still I will send for
that pretty boy over there in the scarlet vest, or ask my cousin James
to ride with me. And he will, too, I know--for he likes bravely to be
beside my dear, sweet Maud Lindesay."