The music grew faster. It grew wilder. It brought Rob to his feet and sent him skipping and snapping his fingers in a frenzy. The stranger was here and there, missing notes because he could not do everything at once, and turn at the same time. And then just when the rant was at its height Miss Macpherson was at it too, first skirts held daintily from the ground, then arms akimbo, bowing, twirling, spinning. The stranger threw aside his pipe. He sang the lilt of it instead, and so facing Miss Macpherson they capered and linked arms and clapped their hands and hooched until the stools were jumping all over the floor and the bannocks after them, and the table rocked upon its legs in the corner.
"Well, my lad," panted the gentleman after it was over, wiping his face, "have ye settled the matter?"
"Sir," cried Rob, "it's the Prince for me."
"Well, well," said he, seating himself again, as though he had guessed as much.
"I believe ye sang so on purpose," snapped Mistress Macpherson, now thoroughly awakened to the danger, and considerably ashamed of herself.
"On my oath, madam," he replied, "I advised the lad against it—ye heard me with your ain ears."
"But thae songs?"
"Tuts," he said, "what are songs?"
The dawn was already in the east, and a faint grey light shone beneath the door.
With a start, the stranger rose to his feet.