Sir John sat down heavily.
“Breadalbane has sent me the whole tale,” he said. “It seems Makian took fright when he saw the others going in and set out for Fort William to take the oaths—of course (as the old fool fortunately did not know) the oaths must be administered to a magistrate, Hill, I said Hill was untrustworthy—Hill gave him a letter to the sheriff of Argyllshire. Makian started for Inverary, but did not reach it till the sixth—God knows why.”
“Probably through making himself drunk at every hut he passed,” remarked the Viscount.
“He pleaded the excuse of heavy snow-storms,” said Sir John, “and the sheriff was actually moved by his whinings to administer the oath.”
“It will make the Macdonalds feel secure,” remarked his father. “I think that is fortunate.”
“But the sheriff has sent a letter to the council at Edinburgh with an account of the whole transaction.”
“Need it ever reach them?” asked the Viscount. “I think if it is privately submitted to me I can cancel it—what is an oath of surrender taken on the sixth? Nothing.”
Sir John rose.
“It shall make no difference,” he said gloomily. “I will make an example of them, whether they took the oath or no—but this must be kept from the King.”
“Which reminds me,” interrupted the Viscount easily, “what of those Jacobite papers you were to put before His Majesty? It is a good many days since you announced them as in your hands.”