Though armed with sword, dirk, and pistols, the bearing of Rob Roy assured the startled duke in an instant that his visit was not hostile, and that he was ignorant, or as yet happily unconscious, of the wreck of his peace and honour, the destruction of his property, and the desolation of his home; so Montrose bowed courteously with a courtier's greeting.
"I salute you, gentleman," said Rob, as in Gaelic there are no terms descriptive of rank. The duke, whose right hand was still buried in his pocket, clutching the paper, as if he dreaded that it would fly out and unfold itself, held forth the other; but Rob drew back with a lofty air of offended dignity, saying,—
"My father's son would not take the left hand of a king—nay, not even of him who is far away in France; God save and send him safely to his own again! And so, duke, why should I take yours?"
"Please yourself, MacGregor," replied the duke, with chilling hauteur; "but remember that I have good reason to be offended."
"Offended!" echoed Rob, with surprise.
"You have used me ill."
"You got my letter from Carlisle by the hand of my most trusted kinsman, Greumoch?" asked Rob, hastily.
"A gillie—a drover," sneered Montrose.
"A duinewassal of the Clan Alpine, James Grahame, name him as you will," said Rob Roy, becoming flushed with anger.
"What is all this to me?" asked Montrose, haughtily.