"To the bond which you allege to hold over the lands of my sick nephew, Gregor MacGregor of Glengyle."
"Well—well?"
"Hamish MacLaren of Invernentie," said Rob, making a great effort to appear calm, "I have here the money to release this bond."
"But I decline it—the time has expired," said MacLaren, doggedly.
"It may have expired now," said Rob Roy; "but it had not expired when, more than three months ago, Glengyle offered you the money, principal and interest."
"I told him——"
"A falsehood—a black lie, Invernentie! You told him the bond was lost, when it was, and still is, in your charter-box; and now I swear, by the Grey Stone of MacGregor, that until you produce that bond, we part not company, in life at least!"
MacLaren's breast swelled with rage and spite. His face grew ashy white, and the veins of his forehead were swollen like whipcord, with the baffled avarice and passion he strove in vain to conceal.
"Allow me to return to Invernentie," said he, in a husky voice and with averted eyes, "and I shall send hither the bond, if I can find it."
"Nay, we part not company until it is produced here; and if that fails to be done, you shall go back to Invernentie heels foremost."