He was then appalled by the deep, yet not unmusical, voice of Henry Gow, who answered from within: "Who calls at this hour, and what is it that you want ?" "It is I--Oliver Proudfute," replied the bonnet maker; "I have a merry jest to tell you, gossip Henry." "Carry thy foolery to some other market.

I am in no jesting humour," said Henry.

"Go hence; I will see no one tonight." "But, gossip--good gossip," answered the martialist with out, "I am beset with villains, and beg the shelter of your roof!" "Fool that thou art!" replied Henry; "no dunghill cock, the most recreant that has fought this Fastern's Eve, would ruffle his feathers at such a craven as thou!" At this moment another strain of minstrelsy, and, as the bonnet maker conceited, one which approached much nearer, goaded his apprehensions to the uttermost; and in a voice the tones of which expressed the undisguised extremity of instant fear he exclaimed: "For the sake of our old gossipred, and for the love of Our Blessed Lady, admit me, Henry, if you would not have me found a bloody corpse at thy door, slain by the bloody minded Douglasses!" "That would be a shame to me," thought the good natured smith, "and sooth to say, his peril may be real.

There are roving hawks that will strike at a sparrow as soon as a heron." With these reflections, half muttered, half spoken, Henry undid his well fastened door, proposing to reconnoitre the reality of the danger before he permitted his unwelcome guest to enter the house.

But as he looked abroad to ascertain how matters stood, Oliver bolted in like a scared deer into a thicket, and harboured himself by the smith's kitchen fire before Henry could look up and down the lane, and satisfy himself there were no enemies in pursuit of the apprehensive fugitive.