While the cavalcade were getting to horse, Sir
William Ashton, a man of peace and of form, censured his son Henry for
having begirt himself with a military sword of preposterous length,
belonging to his brother, Colonel Ashton.
"If you must have a weapon," he said, "upon such a peaceful occasion,
why did you not use the short poniard sent from Edinburgh on purpose?"
The boy vindicated himself by saying it was lost.
"You put it out of the way yourself, I suppose," said his father, "out
of ambition to wear that preposterous thing, which might have served Sir
William Wallace. But never mind, get to horse now, and take care of your
sister."
The boy did so, and was placed in the centre of the gallant train. At
the time, he was too full of his own appearance, his sword, his laced
cloak, his feathered hat, and his managed horse, to pay much regard to
anything else; but he afterwards remembered to the hour of his death,
that when the hand of his sister, by which she supported hersel on
the pillion behind him, touched his own, it felt as wet and cold as
sepulchral marble.
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