rgantua of intellect--who is to
vanquish us all, as Panurge did Thaumast, the Englishman?" asked the
Sorbonist of the Scot. "Who is he that is more philosophic than
Pythagoras?--ha!"

"Who is more studious than Carneades!" said the Bernardin.

"More versatile than Alcibiades!" said Montaigu.

"More subtle than Averroes!" cried Harcourt.

"More mystical than Plotinus!" said one of the Four Nations.

"More visionary than Artemidorus!" said Cluny.

"More infallible than the Pope!" added Lemoine.

"And who pretends to dispute _de omni scibili_," shouted the Spaniard.

"_Et quolibet ente!_! added the Sorbonist.

"Mine ears are stunned with your vociferations," replied the Scot. "You
ask me who James Crichton is, and yourselves give the response. You have
mockingly said he is a _rara avis_; a prodigy of wit and learning: and
you have unintentionally spoken the truth. He is so. But I will tell you
that of him of which you are wholly ignorant, or which you have
designedly overlooked. His condition is that of a Scottish gentleman of
high rank. Like your Spanish grandee, he need not doff his cap to kings.
On either side hath he the best of blood in his veins. His mother was a
Stuart directly descended from that regal line. His father, who owneth
the fair domains of Eliock and Cluny, was Lord Advocate to our bonny
and luckless Mary (whom Heaven assoilzie!) and still holds his high
office. Methinks the Lairds of Crichton might have been heard of here.
Howbeit, they are well known to me, who being an Ogilvy of Balfour, have
often heard tell of a certain contract or obligation, whereby--"

"_Basta!_" interrupted the Spaniard, "heed not thine own affairs, worthy
Scot. Tell us of this Crichton--ha!"

"I have told you already more than I ought to have told," replied
Ogilvy, sullenly. "And if you lack further information respecting James
Crichton's favor at the Louvre, his feats of arms, and the esteem in
which he is held by all the dames of honor in attendance upon your Queen
Mother, Catherine de' Medicis--and moreover," he added, with somewhat of
sarcasm, "with her fair daughter, Marguerite de Valois--you will do well
to address yourself to the king's buffoon, Maitre Chicot, whom I see not
far off. Few there are, methinks, who could in such short space have won
so much favor, or acquired such bright renown."

"Humph!" muttered the Englishman, "your Scotsmen stick by each other all
the world over. This James Crichton may or