"Six o'clock, your lordship," said Rob, in a great awe of him.
"Six o'clock!" He frowned suddenly, looking all around him with pursed lips. "Where are my servants?" he cried. And when no answer came he quoted a scrap of Latin, and chuckled as though the context tickled him.
"Well, well," said he at last, "and who are you, boy?"
"Rob Fraser, sir."
"Thank ye," he snarled, speaking in broad Scots; "but it's a name as common as muir-fowl hereabouts. Why are ye no with the Master, that unscrupulous rebel, my son? Mind how I spoke of him, Rob, should they ever dare to take me."
"I heard ye, my lord."
"Aye, and speak up for an old man, Rob, whose havers may be misinterpreted, ye ken. What is it ye will answer, Rob?"
"That you called your son, the Master, an unscrupulous rebel," he replied.
Lovat nodded his great head approvingly.
"Bonny it sounds. That'll make the House o' Peers sit up. We'll carry it with silver hairs and injured innocence, Rob—an auld man, my lords, near doited with years and sorrow."