seriously, Katherine Kennedy must carry off her lover. True to the
difference that opposes me to the rest of my sex, I could not love a man
whom I did not vanquish and abduct, as a riever does the chattels of the
farmer."

Continuing her gaze, as she laughed at her own strange thoughts, she saw
the merchant bind his mules to a ring fixed in the inside of the wall,
and take out of his panniers a vessel, with which he proceeded in the
direction of the door that led to the hall. When the merchant had
disappeared, she saw one of the retainers of the castle examining
intently the mules and their panniers. He looked up and caught her eye;
and placing his finger on his forehead, made a sign for her to come
down. She obeyed with her usual alacrity, and in a moment was at the
side of the retainer, who, slipping gently under the shade of the
castle, so as to be out of the view of those within the hall,
communicated to the ear of Katherine some intelligence of an important
nature. The man looked grave; Kate snapped her fingers; the fire of her
eyes glanced from the balls like the sparks of struck flint, and the
expression of her countenance indicated that she had formed a purpose
which she gloried in executing.

"Hark ye, Gregory," said she; "I am still your debtor, but I require
again your services." And, looking carefully around her, she whispered
some words into the ear of the man; and, upon receiving his nod of
intelligence and assent, sprung up the steps that led to the hall.

The wine merchant was, as she entered, sitting at the oaken table,
opposite to the old baron, who was holding up in his hand a species of
glass jug, and looking through it with that peculiar expression which is
only to be found in the face of a luxurious wine-toper in the act of
passing sentence.

"Wha, in God's name, are ye, man?" cried the baron, under the cover of
whose speech Kate slipped cleverly up to the window, and sat down, with
her cheek resting on her hand, in apparent listlessness, but eyeing
intently the stranger. "I could have wad the picture o' my ancestor,
Watt o' Flodden, or King Henry's turret, in the east wing o'
Innerkepple, wi' its twenty wounds, mair precious than goold, that there
wasna a cup o' vintage '90 in Scotland except what I had mysel. Whar got
ye't, man? Are ye the Devil? Hae ye brocht it frae my ain cellars?
Speak, Satan!"

"Vy, _mon cher_ Innerkepple," replied the merchant, "did I not know that
you were one grand