as a stingy bidder at an auction, who is loath to advance his offer for a
favourite lot.

"Claret for me," said one fellow.

"I like ale better," said another, "provided it is right juice of John
Barleycorn."

"Better never was malted," said Milnwood; "I can hardly say sae muckle
for the claret. It's thin and cauld, gentlemen."

"Brandy will cure that," said a third fellow; "a glass of brandy to three
glasses of wine prevents the curmurring in the stomach."

"Brandy, ale, sack, and claret?--we'll try them all," said Bothwell, "and
stick to that which is best. There's good sense in that, if the damn'dest
whig in Scotland had said it."

Hastily, yet with a reluctant quiver of his muscles, Milnwood lugged out
two ponderous keys, and delivered them to the governante.

"The housekeeper," said Bothwell, taking a seat, and throwing himself
upon it, "is neither so young nor so handsome as to tempt a man to follow
her to the gauntrees, and devil a one here is there worth sending in her
place.--What's this?--meat?" (searching with a fork among the broth, and
fishing up a cutlet of mutton)--"I think I could eat a bit--why, it's as
tough as if the devil's dam had hatched it."

"If there is any thing better in the house, sir," said Milnwood, alarmed
at these symptoms of disapprobation--"No, no," said Bothwell, "it's not