lated stump told me that the more I felt the pain his knife and
brand inflicted, the better was my chance of recovery. I shall not,
therefore, hesitate to hurt your feelings, while by doing so I may be
able to bring you to a sense of what is necessary for your safety. Your
Grace has been the pupil of mirthful folly too long; you must now assume
manly policy, or be crushed like a butterfly on the bosom of the flower
you are sporting on."

"I think I know your cast of morals, Sir John: you are weary of merry
folly--the churchmen call it vice--and long for a little serious crime.
A murder, now, or a massacre, would enhance the flavour of debauch, as
the taste of the olive gives zest to wine. But my worst acts are but
merry malice: I have no relish for the bloody trade, and abhor to see or
hear of its being acted even on the meanest caitiff. Should I ever fill
the throne, I suppose, like my father before me, I must drop my own
name, and be dubbed Robert, in honour of the Bruce; well, an if it be
so, every Scots lad shall have his flag on in one hand and the other
around his lass's neck, and manhood shall be tried by kisses and
bumpers, not by dirks and dourlachs; and they shall write on my grave,
'Here lies Robert, fourth of his name. He won not battles like Robert
the First. He rose not from a count to a king like Robert the Second.
He founded not churches like Robert the Third, but was contented to live
and die king of good fellows!' Of all my two centuries of ancestors, I
would only emulate the fame of--

"Old King Coul, Who had a brown bowl."

"My gracious lord," said Ramorny, "let me remind you that your joyous
revels involve serious evils. If I had lost this hand in fighting to
attain for your Grace some important advantage over your too powerful
enemies, the loss would never have grieved me. But to be reduced from
helmet and steel coat to biggin and gown in a night brawl--"

"Why, there again now, Sir John," interrupted the reckless Prince. "How
canst thou be so unworthy as to be for ever flinging thy bloody hand in
my face, as the ghost of Gaskhall threw his head at Sir William Wallace?
Bethink thee, thou art more unreasonable than Fawdyon himself; for wight
Wallace had swept his head off in somewhat a hasty humour, whereas I
would gladly stick thy hand on again, were that possible. And, hark
thee, since that cannot be, I will get thee such a substitute as the
steel hand of the old knight of Carslogie, with which