"I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's good—"
"Impossible—you are pleased to insult me."
"Then what will you do should I tell you?"
"I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle."
A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks.
"You would—you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English hands, you would sell me?"
"There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly did the same to me."
"Long ago—long ago."
"In the year 1728 to be exact."
Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again.