mistaken in you."

"Your pardon, most reverend," interjected Sholto, anxiously, "please
you to excuse my brother; his voice hath just broken and he cannot
sing at present." Then, under his breath, he added, "Laurie MacKim,
you God-forgotten fool, if you sing that song you will get us both
stripped in a thrice and whipped on the bare back for insolence to the
Earl's uncle!"

"Go to," said his brother, "I _will_ sing. The old cook is monstrous
deaf at any rate."

"Sing," said the Abbot, "I would hear you gladly. So fair a face must
be accompanied by the pipe of a nightingale. Besides, we sorely need a
tenor for the choir at Sweetheart."

So, encouraged in this fashion, the daring Laurence began:

_"Nae priests aboot me shall be seen
To mumble prayers baith morn and e'en,
I'll swap them a' for Mary Quean!
I'll bid nae mess for me be sung,
Dies ille, dies iræ,
Nor clanking bells for me be rung,
Sic semper solet fieri!
I'll gang my ways to Mary Quean."_

"Ah, very good, very good, truly," said the Abbot, thrusting his hand
into his pouch beneath his gown, "here are two gold nobles for thee,
sweet lad, and another for your brother, whose countenance methinks is