It was the sight of their claymores that sent Muckle John's flickering eyes upon his companion.
"My lad," said he, stopping abruptly, "there's one thing we must be seeing too. For cutting firewood or driving bestial,* I have no doubt yon weapon might serve as well as another, but for the game of war it is disappointing," and whipping out his own sword he made a parry or two, and winked at him.
* Cattle.
"What do ye think o' that?" said he, and drove it home again into the scabbard.
"I think it's bonny," said Rob shivering with the chill wind.
"Bonny—you Fraser loon—what kind of word is that for the sword of Muckle John," and without a word, he turned his back and began to stride again up the street, snorting as he went.
"But, sir," cried Rob, at his heels, "what about me?"
"You," cried Muckle John in a huff, "what indeed?"
"I know nothing of swords," said Rob, anxious to appease him at all costs.
Presently Muckle John stopped and looked, first upon the ground and then at Rob, and so upon the ground again.