The would-be hero's head drooped; he looked slightly abashed.
"What would Danny be doin' to you?" inquired Callum.
At the question, the proud little head came up swiftly.
"He said—he said!" cried its owner, stammering in his wrath, "he said I would be an Englishman!"
Small comfort he received, for the report of this deadly insult produced yells of laughter.
"Yon was a black-hearted Irish trick, an' jist like one o' Pat Murphy's tribe, whatever," said Callum, with a sudden affectation of solemnity that somewhat appeased the child's rising indignation.
"An' you would be pitchin' into him good for his lies, wouldn't you?" inquired Rory, encouragingly.
The boy looked up shyly at his grandfather. "A wee bit," he admitted modestly.
The father glanced significantly at his eldest son. "School will be the place to learn many things," he said in a low tone. The young man laughed easily. "He's bound to be finding it out some time, anyway," he answered, but not so low that the boy's quick ears could not catch the words. He looked up intently into the faces of the two men, a startled expression in his big eyes. Then he suddenly scrambled out from between them, and went behind to where Hamish, his youngest uncle, sat. He felt vaguely that he was approaching some strange, unforeseen trouble, and Hamish was always sympathetic.
The sleigh had been moving swiftly through long, narrow forest aisles, and now it suddenly turned into view of a small farm, a "clearing," plentifully besprinkled with snow-crowned stumps and surrounded by the still unconquered forest, dark and menacing, but sullenly and slowly retreating.