“I’ll take no more, Sir John,” he cried; he eyes half-shut in a sinister manner and the whip tapped faster on his boot. “You ’ave forgotten you are not in your Parliament ’ouse.”
The Master of Stair felt he had gone far enough; he acknowledged himself over-matched, though with no good grace; he turned under the hard gaze of the King and muttered some words of apology, but only as if William’s cold glance forced him to them against his will; in his heart he hated the man who overbore him.
Suddenly the King laughed.
“You ’ave not a courteous temperament,” he said. “You are too stiff, Sir John, and too fiery.”
The Master of Stair bowed and bit his lip.
The King crossed to the chair by the fire and sank into it with an air of weariness.
“About Scotlan’,” he said disinterestedly. “These ’ighlander’ ’ave all come in?”
He was not looking at the Master, and did not see the glance Sir John gave him. He answered in a voice unnaturally controlled:
“All save the Macdonalds of Glencoe, your Majesty.”
“Ah?” said the King indifferently. “Will you, sir, ring the bell for the candle?”