Breadalbane, entering, gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward, motioning to Ardkinglass to stand back against the wall. The two young men swung round, black with mistrust, but Makian spoke in bland Lowland Scotch:
“Ye will be wondering, why we make such a tardy appearance,” he remarked gently, “weel, it was the weather—was ower rough.”
His manner utterly waived all thought of offense between them; he spoke as if the Campbells and Macdonalds had been friends for centuries.
Breadalbane hitched his sword over his hip so that it lay nearer his hand. “Weel,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll no’ be denying that I was expecting Makian, though ’tis ower long since a Macdonald came to Kilchurn.”
Makian waved his hand courteously as if he dismissed even the hint of an unpleasant subject. “Ye will be guessing our errand?” he said suavely.
There was the slightest pause; Breadalbane measured the three huge Highlanders in their dark tartans with their dirks stuck through their belts, and the Highlanders eyed the Earl, slender in his Lowland suit of gray velvet with his left hand gently pulling his sword backwards and forwards.
He was the first to speak:
“Yea,” he said, “it will be aboot the coos ye have come, Macdonald.”
Makian’s face was a pleasant blank.
“The coos?” he repeated courteously.