"Fair partner, may I not crave the name of her who has graced me thus far?"
"You may," said the maiden; "but it is a question whether I shall answer you."
"And why?" asked Roland.
"Because nobody gives anything for nothing--and you can tell me nothing in return which I care to hear."
"Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in exchange for yours?" returned Roland.
"No!" answered the maiden, "for you know little of either."
"How?" said the page, somewhat angrily.
"Wrath you not for the matter," said the damsel; "I will show you in an instant that I know more of you than you do of yourself."
"Indeed," answered Graeme; "for whom then do you take me?"
"For the wild falcon," answered she, "whom a dog brought in his mouth to a certain castle, when he was but an unfledged eyas--for the hawk whom men dare not fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on carrion--whom folk must keep hooded till he has the proper light of his eyes, and can discover good from evil."
"Well--be it so," replied Roland Graeme; "I guess at a part of your parable, fair mistress mine--and perhaps I know as much of you as you do of me, and can well dispense with the information which you are so niggard in giving."
"Prove that," said the maiden, "and I will give you credit for more penetration than I judged you to be gifted withal."
"It shall be proved instantly," said Roland Graeme. "The first letter of your name is S, and the last N."
"Admirable," said his partner, "guess on."
"It pleases you to-day," continued Roland, "to wear the snood and kirtle, and perhaps you may be seen to-morrow in hat and feather, hose and doublet."
"In the clout! in the clout! you have hit the very white," said the damsel, suppressing a great inclination to laugh.
"You can switch men's eyes out of their heads, as well as the heart out of their bosoms."
These last words were uttered in a low and tender tone, which, to Roland's great mortification, and somewhat to his displeasure, was so far from allaying, that it greatly increased, his partner's disposition to laughter. She could scarce compose herself while she replied, "If you had thought my hand so formidable," extricating it from his hold, "you would not have grasped it so hard; but I perceive you know me so fully, that there is no occasion to show you my face."
"Fair Catherine," said the page, "he were unworthy ever to have seen you, far less to have dwelt so long in the same service, and under the same roof with you, who could mistake your air, your gesture, your step in walking or in dancing, the turn of your neck, the symmetry of your form--none could be so dull as not to recognize you by so many proofs; but for me, I could swear even to that tress of hair that escapes from under your muffler."
"And to the face, of course, which that muffler covers," said the maiden, removing her veil, and in an instant endeavouring to replace it. She showed the features of Catherine; but an unusual degree of petulant impatience inflamed them, when, from some awkwardness in her management of the muffler, she was unable again to adjust it with that dexterity which was a principal accomplishment of the coquettes of the time.
"The fiend rive the rag to tatters!" said the damsel, as the veil fluttered about her shoulders, with an accent so earnest and decided, that it made the page start. He looked again at the damsel's face, but the information which his eyes received, was to the same purport as before. He assisted her to adjust her muffler, and both were for an instant silent. The damsel spoke first, for Roland Graeme was overwhelmed with surprise at the contrarieties which Catherine Seyton seemed to include in her person and character.
"You are surprised," said the damsel to him, "at what you see and hear --But the times which make females men, are least of all fitted for men to become women; yet you yourself are in danger of such a change."
"I in danger of becoming effeminate!" said the page.
"Yes, you, for all the boldness of your reply," said the damsel. "When you should hold fast your religion, because it is assailed on all sides by rebels, traitors, and heretics, you let it glide out of your breast like water grasped in the hand. If you are driven from the faith of your fathers from fear of a traitor, is not that womanish?--If you are cajoled by the cunning arguments of a trumpeter of heresy, or the praises of a puritanic old woman, is not that womanish?--If you are bribed by the hope of spoil and preferment, is not that womanish?--And when you wonder at my venting a threat or an execration, should you not wonder at yourself, who, pretending to a gentle name and aspiring to knighthood, can be at the same time cowardly, silly, and self-interested!"
"I would that a man would bring such a charge," said the page; "he should see, ere his life was a minute older, whether he had cause to term me coward or no."
"Beware of such big words," answered the maiden; "you said but anon that I sometimes wear hose and doublet."
"But remain still Catharine Seyton, wear what you list," said the page, endeavouring again to possess himself of her hand.
"You indeed are pleased to call me so," replied the maiden, evading his intention, "but I have many other names besides."
"And will you not reply to that," said the page, "by which you are distinguished beyond every other maiden in Scotland?"
The damsel, unallured by his praises, still kept aloof, and sung with gaiety a verse from an old ballad,
"Oh, some do call me Jack, sweet love, And some do call me Gill; But when I ride to Holyrood, My name is Wilful Will."
"Wilful Will" exclaimed the page, impatiently; "say rather Will o' the Wisp--Jack with the Lantern--for never was such a deceitful or wandering meteor!"
"If I be such," replied the maiden, "I ask no fools to follow me--If they do so, it is at their own pleasure, and must be on their own proper peril."
"Nay, but, dearest Catherine," said Roland Graeme, "be for one instant serious."
"If you will call me your dearest Catherine, when I have given you so many names to choose upon," replied the damsel, "I would ask you how, supposing me for two or three hours of my life escaped from yonder tower, you have the cruelty to ask me to be serious during the only merry moments I have seen perhaps for months?"
"Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments of deep and true feeling, which are worth ten thousand years of the liveliest mirth; and such was that of yesterday, when you so nearly--"