CHAPTER IV.

What's all this turmoil crammed into our parts?
Faith, but the pit-a-pat of poor young hearts.

DRYDEN.


The sturdy armourer was not, it may be believed, slack in keeping
the appointment assigned by his intended father in law. He went
through the process of his toilet with more than ordinary care,
throwing, as far as he could, those points which had a military
air into the shade. He was far too noted a person to venture to go
entirely unarmed in a town where he had indeed many friends, but
also, from the character of many of his former exploits, several
deadly enemies, at whose hands, should they take him at advantage,
he knew he had little mercy to expect. He therefore wore under his
jerkin a "secret," or coat of chain mail, made so light and flexible
that it interfered as little with his movements as a modern under
waistcoat, yet of such proof as he might safely depend upon, every
ring of it having been wrought and joined by his own hands. Above
this he wore, like others of his age and degree, the Flemish hose
and doublet, which, in honour of the holy tide, were of the best
superfine English broadcloth, light blue in colour, slashed out
with black satin, and passamented (laced, that is) with embroidery
of black silk. His walking boots were of cordovan leather; his
cloak of good Scottish grey, which served to conceal a whinger, or
couteau de chasse, that hung at his belt, and was his only offensive
weapon, for he carried in his hand but a rod of holly. His black