“Nay, we will take no oaths to a Campbell.”
Lochiel’s sharp eyes traveled keenly over the three faces; his own fell to gravity.
“Why, you would play the fool,” he said. “These letters are from Caryl, an accredited agent of King James, and His Majesty gives us leave to take the oath to the Dutchman—and to break it.”
Ronald’s face grew harder.
“It is no question of the kings—I’d see either of them hanged for a gold piece—it’s a question of Jock Campbell of Breadalbane,” he said sullenly.
Lochiel, bred in cities and used to courts, smiled at the young Highlander’s unreasoning venom. “Ye have stubborn stuff there,” he said to Makian. “But let me warn ye—take the oaths before it be too late.”
Macdonald was flattered by the friendliness of so great a man, but was too proud to show it; and sore from his recent encounter with Breadalbane, spoke with an assurance he was far from feeling.
“I am not afraid,” he said loftily. “I will consider about taking the oaths—and ye, Ewen Cameron, will ye be the first to come in?”
Lochiel drew himself up haughtily and his dark cheek flushed.
“Nay, ’tis a point of honor with me—I will not be the first,” he answered. “But my tacksmen are free to do as they choose, and my tacksmen understand me. Farewell.”