of Owsenford with much grace and sweetness, while the weakness of his
voice was compensated by the manlier strains with which Sir James
occasionally chimed in. Then, as Harry gave full meed of appreciative
praise and thanks, Sir James said, 'Lend me thine harp, Malcolm; I have
learnt thy song now; and thou, Harry, must hear and own how far our
Scottish minstrelsy exceeds thy boasted Chevy Chase.'

And forth rang in all the mellow beauty of his voice that most glorious
of ballads, the Battle of Otterburn, as much more grand than it had been
when he heard it from the glee-man or from Malcolm, as a magnificent
voice, patriotic enthusiasm, and cultivation and refinement, could make
it. He had lost himself and all around in the passion of the victory,
the pathos of the death. But no such bright look of thanks recompensed
him. Harry's face grew dark, and he growled, 'Douglas dead? Ay, he wins
more fields so than alive! I wish you would keep my old Shrewsbury
friend, Earl Tyneman, as you call him, at home.'

''Tis ill keeping the scholars in bounds when the master is away,'
returned Sir James.

'Well, by this time Tom has taught them how to transgress--sent them home
with the long scourge from robbing orchards in Anjou. He writes to me
almost with his foot in the stirrup, about to give Douglas and Buchan a
lesson. I shall make short halts and long stages south. This is too far
off for tidings.'

'True,' said Sir John, with a satirical curl of the lip; 'above all, when
fair ladies brook not to ink their ivory fingers.'

'There spake the envious fiend,' laughed the elder brother. 'John bears