sumpter mules and
panniers, was at the end of the drawbridge, and had expressed a strong
desire to submit his commodity to the test of such a famous judge of the
spirit of the grape as the baron of Innerkepple, whose name had gone
forth as transcending that of all modern wine-drinkers.

"A wine merchant!" ejaculated Innerkepple, smacking his lips after his
interrupted draught of vintage '90. "What species o' sma' potation does
he deal in? Ha! ha! It suits my humour to see the quack's een reel, as
he finds his tongue and palate glued thegither wi' what I ca' wine, and
gets them loosed again by his ain coloured water. Show him in, George."

"Whar is my leddy, yer Honour?" said the seneschal, looking bluntly.
"Will she consent to the drawbridge bein' raised at a time when the
castle's nearly empty?"

"She has just gane into the green parlour in the west tower," said the
baron. "But I'll tak Kate in my ain hands. She likes fun as weel as her
auld father, and will laugh to see this quack beaten wi' his ain bowls."

The seneschal withdrew, though reluctantly, and casting his eyes about
for the indispensable Katherine; but she was not within his reach, and
he felt himself compelled, by the impatience of the old baron, to admit
the merchant. The creaking hinges of the bridge resounded through the
castle and the merchant and his mules were seen by Katherine, looking
through a loophole, slowly making their way into the castle. It was too
late for her now to consider of the propriety of the permission to
enter; so she leant her chin on her hand, and quietly scanned the
stranger, as he crossed the bridge, driving his mules before him with a
large stick, which he brought down with a loud thwack on their
backs--accompanying his act with a loud "Whoop, ho!" and occasionally
throwing his eyes over the walls as he proceeded.

"Whom have we here?" said she, as she communed with herself, and nodded
her head, still apparent through the loophole. "By'r Lady! neither
Gascon nor Fleming, or my eyes are no better than my father's, when he
looks at _antiques_ through the red medium of his vintage of '90.
Perchance, a lover come to run away with Kate Kennedy. Hey! the thought
tickles my wild wits, and sends me on the wings of fancy into the
regions of romance. Yet I have not read that the catching and carrying
off of _Tartars_ hath anything to do with the themes of romantic
love-errantry. I'm witty at the expense of this poor packman; but,