"They are kittle cattle, the Fawsides," whispered Mungo Tennant, the warder, as they ushered the boy into the high-arched hall, where the grim old laird was reclining asleep in a huge black leather chair, covered by a wolf's-skin, and seated near a fire that blazed on the tiled hearth.
"Bairn!" he exclaimed, with more astonishment than anger, on being wakened, "what want ye of me?"
"My father's sword!" replied young William boldly.
"Your father!—And who was he, my callant?"
"Sir John of Fawside and that ilk——"
"Aha!"
"He whom ye foully slew under tryst, as all in the Lothians know."
The high, stern brow of old Preston grew black as night. He grasped the carved arms of his high-backed chair, and for a moment surveyed the boy with a terrible frown; then, perceiving that he neither quailed nor shrank under this glance, but stoutly paid it back, though his little heart trembled at his temerity, Preston relaxed his ferocity a little, and grimly replied, under his shaggy moustache,
"Ye lie, ye d—d little limmer!—and they who told ye so, foully lie! I slew him, true; but it was in fair fight, and at open feud, as God and all braid Scotland be my judge!"
"Be that as you will, I want his sword; and, betide me weal, betide me woe, I shall have it!"