Mary Quean!'"

The Abbot smiled, well pleased.

"Ah, exceeding proper, a song to the honour of the Queen of Heaven (he
devoutly crossed himself at the name),--I knew that I could not be
mistaken in you."

"Your pardon, most reverend," interjected Sholto, anxiously, "please
you to excuse my brother; his voice hath just broken and he cannot
sing at present." Then, under his breath, he added, "Laurie MacKim,
you God-forgotten fool, if you sing that song you will get us both
stripped in a thrice and whipped on the bare back for insolence to the
Earl's uncle!"

"Go to," said his brother, "I _will_ sing. The old cook is monstrous
deaf at any rate."

"Sing," said the Abbot, "I would hear you gladly. So fair a face must
be accompanied by the pipe of a nightingale. Besides, we sorely need a
tenor for the choir at Sweetheart."

So, encouraged in this fashion, the daring Laurence began:

_"Nae priests aboot me shall be seen
To mumble prayers baith morn and e'en,
I'll swap them a' for Mary Quean!
I'll bid nae mess for me be sung,
Dies ille, dies irae,
Nor clanking bells for me be rung,
Sic semper solet fieri!
I'll gang my ways to Mary Quean."_

"Ah, very good, very good, truly," said the Abbot, thrusting his hand
into his pouch beneath his gown, "here are two gold nobles for thee,
sweet lad, and another for your brother, whose countenance methinks is
somewhat less sweet. You have sung well to the praise of our Lady!
What did you say your name was? Of a surety, we must have you at
Sweetheart. And you have the Latin, too, as I heard in the hymn. It is
a thing most marvellous. Verily, the very unction of grace must have
visited you in your cradle!"

Laurence held down his head with all his native modesty, but the more
open Sholto grew red in the face, hearing behind him the tittering and
shoulder-shaking of the priests and lay servants in the Abbot's train,
and being sure that they would inform their master as soon as he
passed on concerning the true import of Master Laurence's song. He was
muttering in a rapid recitative, "Oh, wait--wait, Laurie MacKim, till
I get you on the Carlinwark shore. A sore back and a stiff skinful of
bones shalt thou have, and not an inch of hide on thee that is not
black and blue. Amen!" he added, stopping his maledictions quickly,
for at that moment the Abbot came somewhat abruptly to the end of his
speech.

The great churchman rode away on his fair