It was Midwinter that entered. His shoulders filled the doorway, and his eyes constrained all three to a tense silence. He walked to the fireplace, picking up Norreys's sword, which he bent into a half hoop against the jamb of the chimney. As his quiet gaze fell on the company it seemed to exercise a peaceful mastery which made the weapon in his hand a mere trinket.
"You have summoned me, Captain Maclean," he said. "I am here to make good my promise. Show me how I can serve you."
"We are constituted a court of honour," said Alastair. "We seek your counsel."
He turned to Norreys.
"You are not two months married, Sir John. How many years have you to your age?"
The man answered like an automaton. "I am in my twenty-third," he said. He was looking alternately to his antagonist and to Midwinter, still with the bewilderment of a dull child.
"Since when have you meddled in politics?"
"Since scarce two years."
"You were drawn to the Prince's side—by what? Was it family tradition?"
"No, damme, my father was a Hanover man when he lived. I turned Jacobite to please Claudie. There was no welcome at Chastlecote unless a man wore the white rose."