Breadalbane lifted his ash-gray eyes with a sinister flash.
“The coos,” he answered, “and the bonnie pasture lands—they have been keeping ye, Macdonald, this mony year, I ken—I willna’ be mentioning the gould and siller, the plate and furniture and sic details—for I’m no’ doubting ye have come to return the coos.”
“I’m no’ understanding,” said Makian pleasantly. “We hav’na’ ane coo in Glencoe.” His two sons emphasized the statement with a scowl, but the Earl was imperturbable.
“Weel,” he remarked, “ye eat a muckle of meat in a fortnight—it is only that time since ye took a hundred fat coos—but I make no doubt that since ye have eaten them, Macdonald, ye have brought the siller to pay for them.”
Again there was a slight pause; the venerable Makian’s face assumed a still more amiable expression, but he appeared a little at a loss for an answer; the sons exchanged fierce glances.
Breadalbane, still fondling his sword-hilt, spoke slowly.
“The market value of the coos is twa pund English apiece.”
At this one of the young Macdonalds broke out: “Ye play the fule, Jock Campbell! We hav’na’ come to prate of coos—but of the oaths to King Wullie.”
Breadalbane looked at him calmly.
“So you’re thinking of taking the oaths? Weel, I’m no’ a sheriff.”