Flinging himself jollily and luxuriously back in an old
danske elbow-chair, and looking with careless glee towards the page,
extending at the same time his right leg, and stretching the other
easily over it, he reminded his companion that he had not yet heard
the ballad which he had made for the Abbot of Unreason's revel. And
accordingly he struck merrily up with
"The Pope, that pagan full of pride,
Has blinded us full lang."------
Roland Graeme, who felt no great delight, as may be supposed, in the
falconer's satire, considering its subject, began to snatch up his
mantle, and fling it around his shoulders, an action which instantly
interrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock.
"Where the vengeance are you going now," he said, "thou restless
boy?--Thou hast quicksilver in the veins of thee to a certainty, and
canst no more abide any douce and sensible communing, than a hoodless
hawk would keep perched on my wrist!"
"Why, Adam," replied the page, "if you must needs know, I am about to
take a walk and look at this fair city. One may as well be still mewed
up in the old castle of the lake, if one is to sit the live-long night
between four walls, and hearken to old ballads."
"It is a new ballad--the Lord help thee!" replied Adam, "and that one
of the best that ever was matched with a rousing chorus."
"Be it so," said the page, "I will hear it another day, when the rain
is dashing against the windows, and there is neither steed stamping,
nor spur jingling, nor feather waving in the neighbourhood to mar my
marking it well.
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