A cloud came over the face of Clermistonlee.
"In the year of Bothwell, my Lords," continued Walter, in a thick voice; "that year of misery to so many. I have been told my father died in defence of the bridge; and my mother—she—spare to me, my Lords, what even the poor soldiers who found me respected! It was preserved and restored to me by the good and noble Countess of Dunbarton when, three years ago, I marched against James of Monmouth."
"The true pup of the crop-eared breed!" said Clermistonlee, scornfully; "false in blood as in name. Macer, hand up the ring! His mother (some trooper's trull) never owned a Jewell like that."
The macer advanced, but hesitated.
"Approach, wretch, and, by the God that beholds us, I will destroy thee!" cried Fenton, inflamed with sudden passion; and so resolute was his aspect, that Maclutchy retreated, and now Mersington and the king's advocate, who had been snoring melodiously, woke suddenly up.
"My Lords, you trifle," said the Earl of Perth.
"Halt, sirs!" added Claverhouse, who admired Walter's indomitable spirit; "I cannot permit this; let the lad retain his ring, but say, without parley, where those fugitives are concealed."
"On the honour of a soldier, I solemnly declare to you, Colonel Grahame, that I know not."
"It is enough," responded Claverhouse, whose deep dark eyes had gazed full upon Walter's with a searching expression which few men could endure. "Never saw I mortal man who could look me openly in the face, when affirming a falsehood."
"This is just havers," said Mersington; "jow the bell for Pate Pincer to gie him one touch of the boot."