ing to you these five minutes, and you have stared
on that scrap of yellow paper, as if it were a spell to turn you into a
statue, and had already wrought half its purpose."

"Well, what dost thou want? Speak, and begone!"

"I want what all men want, though few are satisfied with it," said
Hayraddin, "I want my due, ten crowns of gold for guiding the ladies
hither."

"With what face darest thou ask any guerdon beyond my sparing thy
worthless life?" said Durward, fiercely, "thou knowest that it was thy
purpose to have betrayed them on the road."

"But I did not betray them," said Hayraddin, "if I had, I would have
asked no guerdon from you or from them, but from him whom their keeping
on the right hand side of the river might have benefited. The party that
I have served is the party who must pay me."

"Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor," said Quentin, telling out
the money. "Get thee to the Boar of Ardennes, or to the devil! but keep
hereafter out of my sight, lest I send thee thither before thy time."

"The Boar of Ardennes!" repeated the Bohemian, with a stronger emotion
of surprise than his features usually expressed--"it was then no vague
guess--no general suspicion--which made you insist on changing the
road?--Can it be--are there really in other lands arts of prophecy more
sure than those of our wandering tribes? The willow tree under which
we spoke could tell no tales. But no--no--no--dolt that I was!--I have
it--I have it!--the willow by the brook near yonder convent--I saw you
look towards it as you passed it, about half a mile from yon hive of
drones--that could not indeed speak, but it might hide one who could
hear! I will hold my councils in an open plain henceforth, not a bunch
of thistles shall be near me for a Scot to shroud amongst.--Ha! ha! the
Scot hath beat the Zingaro at his own subtle weapons. But know,
Quentin Durward, that you have foiled me to the marring of thine own
fortune.--Yes! the fortune I have told thee of, from the lines on thy
hand, had been richly accomplished but for thine own obstinacy."

"By Saint. Andrew," said Quentin, "thy impudence makes me laugh in spite
of myself.--How, or in what, should thy successful villainy have been of
service to me? I heard, indeed, that you did stipulate to save my life,
which condition your worthy allies would speedily have forgotten, had we
once come to blows--but in what thy betrayal of these ladies could have
served me, but by expos