on me!'

And Jean fell a-weeping.

CHAPTER 10. TENDER AND TRUE

'For I am now the Earlis son,
And not a banished, man.'--The Nut-Brown Maid.

'O St. Andrew! St. Bride! Our Lady of Succour! St. Denys!--all the lave
of you, that may be nearest in this fremd land,--come and aid him. It
is the Master of Angus, ye ken--the hope of his house. He'll build you
churches, gie ye siller cups and braw vestments gin ye'll bring him
back. St. Andrew! St. Rule! St. Ninian!--you ken a Scots tongue! Stay
his blood,--open his een,--come to help ane that ever loved you and did
you honour!'

So wailed Ringan of the Raefoot, holding his master's head on his knees,
and binding up as best he might an ugly thrust in the side, and a blow
which had crushed the steel cap into the midst of the hair. When he saw
his master fall and the ladies captured, he had, with the better part
of valour, rushed aside and hid himself in the thicket of thorns and
hazels, where, being manifestly only a stray horseboy, no search was
made for him. He rightly concluded that, dead or alive, his master might
thus be better served than by vainly struggling over his fallen body.

It seemed as though, in answer to his invocation, a tremor began to pass
through Douglas's frame, and as Ringan exclaimed, 'There! there!--he
lives! Sir, sir! Blessings on the saints! I was sure that a French
reiver's lance could never be the end of the Master,' George opened his
eyes.

'What is it?' he said faintly. 'Where are the ladies?'

'Heed not the leddies the noo, sir, but let me bind your head. That cap
has crushed like an egg-shell, and has cut you worse than the sword.
Bide still, sir, I say, if ye mean to do any gude another time!'

'The ladies--Ringan--'

'The loons rid aff wi' them, sir--up towards the hills yonder. Nay! but
if ye winna thole to let me bind your wound, how d'ye think to win to
their aid, or ever to see bonnie Scotland again?'

George submitted to this reasoning; but, as his senses returned, asked
if all the troop had gone.

'Na, sir; the ane with that knight who was at the tourney--a plague
light on him--went aff with the leddies--up yonder; but they, as they
called the escort--the Archers of the Guard, as they behoved to call
themselves--they rid aff by the way that we came by--the traitor loons!'

'Ah! it was black treachery. Follow the track of the ladies,
Ringan;--heed not me.'

'Mickle gude that wad do, sir, if I left yo