Bucklaw, shut out from his usual field-sports and joyous carouses by the
necessity of remaining concealed within the walls of the castle, became
a joyless and uninteresting companion. When the Master of Ravenswood
would no longer fence or play at shovel-board; when he himself had
polished to the extremity the coat of his palfrey with brush, curry
comb, and hair-cloth; when he had seen him eat his provender, and
gently lie down in his stall, he could hardly help envying the animal's
apparent acquiescence in a life so monotonous. "The stupid brute," he
said, "thinks neither of the race-ground or the hunting-field, or
his green paddock at Bucklaw, but enjoys himself as comfortably when
haltered to the rack in this ruinous vault, as if he had been foaled
in it; and, I who have the freedom of a prisoner at large, to range
through the dungeons of this wretched old tower, can hardly,
betwixt whistling and sleeping, contrive to pass away the hour till
dinner-time."
And with this disconsolate reflection, he wended his way to the bartizan
or battlements of the tower, to watch what objects might appear on the
distant moor, or to pelt, with pebbles and pieces of lime, the sea-mews
and cormorants which established themselves incautiously within the
reach of an idle young man.
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