"And that other leathern sheathed, iron hilted fellow who hangs
beside him," said the glover, "has he been idle all this while?
Come, jolly smith, confess the truth--how many brawls hast thou
had since crossing the Tay?"

"Nay, now you do me wrong, father, to ask me such a question
(glancing a look at Catharine) in such a presence," answered the
armourer: "I make swords, indeed, but I leave it to other people to
use them. No--no, seldom have I a naked sword in my fist, save
when I am turning them on the anvil or grindstone; and they slandered
me to your daughter Catharine, that led her to suspect the quietest
burgess in Perth of being a brawler. I wish the best of them would
dare say such a word at the Hill of Kinnoul, and never a man on
the green but he and I."

"Ay--ay," said the glover, laughing, "we should then have a fine
sample of your patient sufferance. Out upon you, Henry, that you
will speak so like a knave to one who knows thee so well! You look
at Kate, too, as if she did not know that a man in this country
must make his hand keep his head, unless he will sleep in slender
security. Come--come, beshrew me if thou hast not spoiled as many
suits of armour as thou hast made."

"Why, he would be a bad armourer, father Simon, that could not
with his own blow make proof of his own workmanship. If I did not
sometimes cleave a helmet, or strike a point through a harness,
I should not know what strength of fabric to give them; and might
jingle together such pasteboard work as yonder Edinburgh smiths
think not shame to put out of their hands."