Archie once more snapped his fingers. ‘Nor one, nor t’other. There’s a man more familiar than the pair. Cousin, the fiddler seals the briefs! The Italian is to be Chancellor. Now what d’ye say?’
Lord Morton said nothing at all. He looked up, he looked down; he screwed his hands together, rolled one softly over the other.
Archie watched his heavy face grow darker as the tide of rage crept up. Presently he tried to move him.
‘Are you for England, cousin?’ he asked.
‘Ay,’ said Morton, ‘that is my road.’
Archie then touched him on the shoulder. ‘Bide a while, my lord. We shall all be friends here before many days. Argyll is here.’
‘Argyll? The fine man!’
‘A finer follows him hard.’
‘Who then? Your sage Lethington?’
‘Lethington! Hoots! no; but the black Earl of Moray, my good lord.’