"Certainly," said Morton; although there was something of gloomy and
relentless severity in the man's manner from which his mind recoiled. His
companions, after a courteous good-night, broke up and went off in
different directions, some keeping them company for about a mile, until
they dropped off one by one, and the travellers were left alone.

The company had not long left the Howff, as Blane's public-house was
called, when the trumpets and kettle-drums sounded. The troopers got
under arms in the market-place at this unexpected summons, while, with
faces of anxiety and earnestness, Cornet Grahame, a kinsman of
Claverhouse, and the Provost of the borough, followed by half-a-dozen
soldiers, and town-officers with halberts, entered the apartment of Niel
Blane.

"Guard the doors!" were the first words which the Cornet spoke; "let no
man leave the house.--So, Bothwell, how comes this? Did you not hear them
sound boot and saddle?"

"He was just going to quarters, sir," said his comrade; "he has had a bad
fall."

"In a fray, I suppose?" said Grahame. "If you neglect duty in this way,
your royal blood will hardly protect you."

"How have I neglected duty?" said Bothwell, sulkily.

"You should have been at quarters, Sergeant Bothwell," replied the
officer; "you have lost a golden opportunity. Here are news come that the
Archbishop of St Andrews has been strangely and foully assassinated by a
body of the rebel whigs, who pursued and stopped his carriage on