This door, which Roland Graeme instantly approached, opened on a large and well-lighted gallery, at the upper end of which he could hear several voices, and the noise of hasty steps approaching towards the hall or vestibule.  A little recalled to sober thought by an appearance of serious danger, he was deliberating whether he should stand fast or retire, when Catherine Seyton re-entered from a side door, running towards him with as much speed as a few minutes since she had fled from him.

“Oh, what mischief brought you hither?” she said; “fly—­fly, or you are a dead man,—­or stay—­they come—­flight is impossible—­say you came to ask for Lord Seyton.” She sprung from him and disappeared through the door by which she had made her second appearance; and, at the same instant, a pair of large folding-doors at the upper end of the gallery flew open with vehemence, and six or seven young gentlemen, richly dressed, pressed forward into the apartment, having, for the greater part, their swords drawn.

“Who is it,” said one, “dare intrude on us in our own mansion?”.  “Cut him to pieces,” said another; “let him pay for this day’s insolence and violence—­he is some follower of the Rothes.”.  “No, by Saint Mary,” said another; “he is a follower of the arch-fiend and ennobled clown Halbert Glendinning, who takes the style of Avenel—­once a church-vassal, now a pillager of the church.”.  “It is so,” said a fourth; “I know him by the holly-sprig, which is their cognizance.  Secure the door, he must answer for this insolence.”

Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, passed on to the door by which Roland had entered the hall, and stationed themselves there as if to prevent his escape.  The others advanced on Graeme, who had just sense enough to perceive that any attempt at resistance would be alike fruitless and imprudent.  At once, and by various voices, none of which sounded amicably, the page was required to say who he was, whence he came, his name, his errand, and who sent him hither.  The number of the questions demanded of him at once, afforded a momentary apology for his remaining silent, and ere that brief truce had elapsed, a personage entered the hall, at whose appearance those who had gathered fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect..."My Lord Seyton"... Excerpt from Sir Walter Scott's, "The Abbott".