“Take the pony and rub him down. I’ve ridden hard. Where’s Mr Kenneth?” came from outside.
The voice sounded very harsh and stern, so much so that Kenneth shrank from meeting him, but it was only for a moment.
“I’m here, father,” he cried, and he went out, followed closely by Max,—who felt that he had no business to go, but that if he stayed back, it would be like leaving his friend in the lurch.
“Oh, there you are—both of you,” said The Mackhai sternly; and Max noted that he was deadly pale, while the veins in his temples were swollen, and looked like a network right round to the front of his brow.
“Yes, father, here we are—both of us,” said Kenneth, unconsciously repeating his father’s form of expression.
“Then perhaps, sir, you will explain to me what is the meaning of that piece of tomfoolery?”
The Mackhai was evidently greatly agitated, and fighting down his anger, as he spoke in a cold, cutting tone, and pointed upward to the ruined battlements.
Kenneth and Max had both forgotten it till they glanced up, and saw the dining-room table-cover floating from the spear staff in the wind.
“That, father?” cried Kenneth, forcing a laugh, while Max felt a strange desire to beat a retreat; “that’s the banner of the Mackhais.”
“No fooling, sir, at a time like this,” cried The Mackhai, so fiercely that his son turned pale. “And now please explain what’s all this I have just learned on the way, about a party of men coming here, and there being a desperate fight. Is this true?”