While he spoke, Donal, waiting his turn, stood as on hot iron. Such sayings were in his ears the foul talk of hell. The moment the earl ceased, he turned to Forgue, and said:—
“My lord, you have removed my harder thoughts of you! You have indeed broken your word, but in a way infinitely nobler than I believed you capable of!”
Lord Morven stared dumbfounded.
“Your comments are out of place, Mr. Grant!” said Forgue, with something like dignity. “The matter is between my father and myself. If you wanted to beg my pardon, you should have waited a fitting opportunity!”
Donal held his peace. He had felt bound to show sympathy with his enemy where he was right.
The earl was perplexed: his one poor ally had gone over to the enemy! He took a glass from the table beside him, and drank: then, after a moment’s silence, apparently of exhaustion and suffering, said,
“Mr. Grant, I desire a word with you.—Leave the room, Forgue.”
“My lord,” returned Forgue, “you order me from the room to confer with one whose presence with you is an insult to me!”
“He seems to me,” answered his father bitterly, “to be after your own mind in the affair!—How indeed should it be otherwise! But so far I have found Mr. Grant a man of honour, and I desire to have some private conversation with him. I therefore request you will leave us alone together.”
This was said so politely, yet with such latent command, that the youth dared not refuse compliance.