CHAPTER VIII.

THE FENCING LESSON.

HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he dances, he hath the eye of youth, he writes verses, he smells April and May; he will carry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry't.

PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you!

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

With the fumes of a late debauch still obscuring his faculties, Clermistonlee sat next morning with his head reclined on his hand, and breakfast before him, but untasted. His lordship was in a decidedly bad humour. It was the 22nd of June, and he had been early aroused by the cannon of the castle and the citadel of Leith saluting in honour of the anniversary of the victory at Bothwell; and the deep boom of the artillery, as they pealed over the city, drew many a groan from the burning hearts of the subdued faction.

The morning was beautiful; a thin gauzy mist was curling up from the loch, and rolling round the green foliage of the Trinity Park, and the sable rocks of the Calton.

In vain the fragrant coffee, new manchets hot from the oven, the fragment of a collared pig, a great silver flagon of spiced ale, a trencher of kippered salmon, and other viands sent up their odours, or were displayed before him in tempting array. Juden, napkin in hand, bustled nervously about the room; one moment dusting the buffet, which already shone like a mirror, or repolishing the row of plate tankards that glittered upon it; and the next, turning to his pettish master, whose attention he endeavoured yet half dreaded to attract.

The fierce dark eyes of Clermistonlee were red and bloodshot; his face was pale, and a stern smile of sinister import curled his proud yet handsome lip; his rich bobin vest was awry and unbuttoned, the lace cuffs and broad collar of his shirt crumpled and soiled; his overlay of point d'Espagne tied carelessly. One hand was thrust into the wide pocket of his rich dressing-gown, the other supported his unshaven chin; one foot exhibited a maroquin slipper, the other was cased in a handsome funnel boot of white buff, garnished with a gold spur and scarlet spur-leather. His lordship was regularly blue-devilled; and, though he sat motionless, a storm of fiery passions were smouldering in his haughty bosom.

In the grate, among torn billets, faded bouquets, love-knots, stray gloves, and innumerable corks, lay his glossy black wig, just where he had flung it the preceding night; his broad hat, with its cavalier plume, lay crushed under the buffet, where a favourite sky terrier had for an hour past been engaged in a vain attempt to masticate the quills of the ostrich feathers. The arrangement of the chairs on one side of the room showed that the roué had reposed there during the night, or morning rather, after the failure of his attempt upon Lilian. A book lay near him: it was Sir William Hope of Hopetoun's "Complete Fencing Master;" and he glanced at it from time to time.

"What hour is it?" he asked suddenly.

"It will be ten gin the time," replied Juden, dusting the buffet again; "but I think, my Lord, a drap coffee, or spiced October, a crail capon, or a slice o' the kipper, would do ye mair gude than graning and glooming for a' the world like your grandfather in the painted chalmer. Here are eggs fresh frae Moutriehill owerbye. Had ye been up in the braw cauler air like me this morning, ye would hae the appetite o' a hawk or a lang famished bratch."

"Like thee, fool!--And where the devil didst bestow thyself this morning?"

"Just awa' up at the tounheid, to see that auld witch tar-barrelled. It was a braw sight! Every place was crowded wi' folk--every window crammed wi' faces, and every lumheid and bartisan loaded wi' skirling weans and shouting laddies. And there was auld Magnus the provost, the baillies and the councillors, a' majoring up the causeway in their scarlet gowns, wigs, and cocked beavers, with the city sword, mace and banner borne before them, wi' drums beating and halberts glinting. Dunmore's dragoons lined the street.

"Certes, it was grand, my lord, and a bleeze weel worth riding to Birgham to see. She maun hae been a horrid witch, that auld carlin, for gude kens was a dooms ugly ane. She was trussed wi' a tow, like a chicken for the spit; and a devilish black beetle, her familiar spirit, tied round her neck in a crystal vial. 'Twas na brunt wi' her, but, God sain us! when the flames touched it, gaed up into the sky, wi' a flaff o' sparks and a clap like a thunder. She scraighed for a tass o' water before the fire was lighted. 'Gie her nane,' quoth my Lord Mersington, 'Gie her nane, ye loons; gin the auld jaud's dry, she'll burn better.' Then a' body leugh and threw up their bannets, as if they had been making a Robin Hude.

"Auld Sir Thomas o' Binns was there, and he leugh too, till the tears came rowing owre his beard; for there is naething that born deil likes better than a tar-barrelling, unless it be a back-handed slash at the hill-folk. And ken ye, Clermistonlee, that a' body said she would hae slippit the claws o' the Council and the Fifteen to boot, but for the notable speech o' my worthy Lord Mersington, who laid down the law and quoted the acts o' Estate in a way whilk was most edifying to hear."

"What is all this cursed cataract of words about?--Of what are you prating?"

"Prating?" reiterated Juden, a little put out. "Ou, just that if your lordship would condescend to break your fast----"

"To eat!--no, the first morsel would choke me like a burning coal. No, Juden; away with the table, and bring me the quilted gloves and a bundle of foils."

Clermistonlee impatiently pushed aside the table, and in doing so, overturned the great ale tankard.

"What are ye aboot, laddie?--are ye daft?" exclaimed Juden, wiping up the streaming liquor in a state of high excitement. "The best damask buirdclaith--he's gane clean wud! The last o' four dizzen o' my lady's Flanders plenishing--he's daft--keepit for high days. O Randal! hae some respect for yoursel', if you have nane for her whose bonnie hands worked your cypher in the corner o' this very buirdclaith."

"Silence, pest!" cried his master in a voice of thunder; but the destruction of the table-cloth was a matter of no small importance to the thrifty old butler, who continued to wipe and mutter,

"The damask buirdclaith--the best in the aik napery-kist--sae braw wi' its champit figures, the very ane that His Highness the Duke (James VII. that is now) dined off wi' Lag, Lauderdale, and the auld Laird. Fie upon ye, Clermistonlee! sic wickedness and waste would hae driven your faither daft--wae's me!"

"Art done with this cursed gabble?"

"Indeed I'm no, my Lord."

"When you are, fool, go and bring the foils."

"Is that a' the breakfast you are for?"

"Rascal, begone! or by----" Juden trotted off, napkin in hand, ere his passionate Lord could finish. He returned in a few minutes with foils, masks, and gloves. Clermistonlee then threw off his dressing-gown; and as he grasped one of the long heavy foils, his cheek reddened and his eye sparkled in anticipation of successful revenge and signal triumph.

"Now, Juden, my trusty knave," he began, in a milder tone; "you know that in my affair with this young minx, Lilian Napier--though I have been foiled in divers ways--that it would ill become me to draw bridle when such game is in view."

"Ay, my Lord; many a shy bird we have flown our hawks at, but never saw I ane that cost the trouble this pretty paroquet hath done."

"She loves a young spark of Dunbarton's Musqueteers--a nameless and beggarly varlet, who in infancy was found among the covenanting rabble in the Greyfriars kirkyard----"

"Aboot the time o' Bothwell--o'd I mind it weel."

"And, forsooth," continued the Lord, stamping with impatience, "Dunbarton's baby-faced Countess, in imitation of proud old Anne of Monmouth, would needs have a pretty page to hold up her train when she walked, sit by her knee in coach and boudoir, carry her lap-dog to church when the Bishop preached; to kiss her dainty hand at all times, and God knows what more.

"This fair lady's toy hath now become a man with a beard on his chin, and a sword at his side; and after trailing a pike for these three years past beneath our Scottish pennon, hath obtained a pair of colours in his patron's band, and presumes to ruffle it in scarlet, and lace among the best gentlemen in Scotland; and cocks his beaver _à la cavalier_ in the faces of the boldest and the best. But these are trifles. This misbegotten minion hath become my rival--_mine_. Ha, ha! Juden--and to be crossed in purpose by a cur like this! Zounds! I shall burst..... This very noon he will be flaunting his feathers with other triflers; and if it is in the power of mortal man to dash his rapier in a thousand pieces--to nail him to the pavement through steel and bone, and to drench his sark in his heart's best blood before her very face, by Jove! this right hand will do it. But ere venturing on so public a trial of my skill, I would fain have a bout with thee; so come on, my old boar-at-bay--have at thee."

Entering at once into the spirit of the anticipated conflict, he attacked Juden with as much ferocity as if he had actually been his foe and rival. He thrust and lunged forward with such fury and rapidity, that Juden, being stout, pursy, less agile, and older by twenty years, was sorely pressed; but being perfect master of the broad-sword, back-sword, and dagger, he stood his ground like a thoroughbred sword-player; and for a time nothing was heard but their suppressed breathing and the clash of the foils.

The cheek of Clermistonlee was crimsoned with passion, and his dark eyes flashed with the energy of every cut and thrust; for, in the excitement of the lesson, he seemed to forget that he was not engaged with Walter, waxing wroth when his most able thrusts were parried with such force that his sword-arm tingled up to the very shoulder. Under old General Lesly and the Duke of Hamilton, Juden had often hewn a passage, sword in hand; through the solid ranks of the English pikemen; and, though somewhat blown, he remained perfectly cool, and when he had breath to spare, assumed the part of an instructor.

"My Lord, my Lord--hoots, laddie! this will never do. You forget yoursel, and show owre mickle front."

"S'death! how so?"

"Mind ye--hand and arm, body and sword, should be dressed in one line; and inclining forward, ye should lunge _so_."

"Pest! fellow--dost take my bobin vest, for buff coat, or pyne doublet?"

Juden laughed as his master spoke.

"Rough lessons are suited to rough work. It was just sae at Dunbar; my whinger whistled through a fat Southron's brisket. Touts! my Lord--what na way was that to fient forward? I ken a wile worth twa o' it. Lurch forward sae--making an opening and pawkily inviting a lunge; when giving a _riporte_ at him, ye may _lock in_, as the masters of fence say; that is, seize his sword-arm by twining your left round it--close your parade shell to shell, in order to disarm him, whilk ye sall do just so;" and suiting the action to the word, Juden suddenly closed up and wrenched away his Lordship's foil.

"God confound thee, fellow!" exclaimed the fiery Lord, exasperated to find himself so adroitly disarmed; while his bluff old butler, delighted with his own skill and vigour, laughed till his eyes swam.

"My Lord," said he, presenting the hilt of the foil, "ye will find yoursel mickle the better o' this rough lesson when crossing blades with our young spark; for my mind sairly misgies me, that Dunbarton's cavaliers are kittle callants to warsle wi'. But ye ken, Clermistonlee, there is no a man in the three Lowdens that could hae dune what I did now. Hech! I am ane o' auld Balgonie's troopers, and mony an ell o' gude English bone and braidcloth I've cloven in my time."

"Well--enough of this, Juden. Bring me a tass of hocheim dashed with brandy--the last runlet--and then I will go abroad. Get me my walking boots and short wig, a buff under-coat, and my scarlet suit bobbed with the white ribbons; my hat--ah, thou damnable cur!--the terrier has torn to shreds a feather, which, with its gold drop, cost me six silver pounds at Lucky Diaper's booth. But it matters not--I may never don another, I will wear my white beaver with the yellow feathers; and get thee thy bonnet and whinger, and follow me. Be brisk, for the morning wears apace."

In five minutes the embossed cup of hock had been brought and drained, and his lordship attired. With his noble features, shaded by his broad hat and its waving feathers, his black wig curling over the shoulders of his scarlet satin coat, which was stiff with silver lace and white ribbons, Clermistonlee had quite the air of a finished gallant. A perfumed handkerchief fluttered from one pocket, a gold snuff-box, with a lady's picture on the lid, glittered in the depth of the other. His long bowl-hilted rapier, with a grasp of embossed silver and a sheath of crimson velvet, hung behind from an embroidered shoulder-belt: one hand dangled a gold-headed and tasselled cane--the other carried the long buff glove, and was bare, according to the vanity of the time, for displaying the sparkle of a splendid diamond ring.

Juden buttoned his green coat close up, buckled on a heavy basket-hilted spada, and drawing his broad blue bonnet over his red burly visage with the air of a man intent on something desperate, followed his master, respectfully keeping a few paces behind on their gaining the crowded street, which was to be the grand arena of their operations.