“Ye stand in Kilchurn Castle!” cried the Earl. “Dinna forget that, Macdonald!”
A passionate reply was on Ian’s lips, but the old chief interposed:
“Ay, we stand in your ain castle, Jock Campbell, because we treat ye as the government’s representative—in your public capacity, ye ken. I’ll no’ be saying it’s greatly to our liking to treat with a Campbell, but I will be saying it’ll no’ be greatly to your credit to be remembering ye are a Campbell.”
Breadalbane’s hand clutched tightly round his sword-hilt; he struggled to maintain his wonted dignity of demeanor.
“Take the oaths an’ ye will, Macdonald,” he said. “But dinna think ye’ll get ony siller frae me—not a bawbee. Ye owe me in money and kind mony times your share o’ the English siller.”
Makian drew himself up with stately gravity.
“Ye are wrong,” he said. “’Tis not in your right to withhold the money.”
“’Tis in my power,” flashed Breadalbane. Ian answered fiercely:
“I fling your word of thief back at ye, Jock Campbell!”
He was striding forward when his brother and father caught him by either arm.