“I was to meet her to-night; does she know I'm here?”
“I rapped at her door mysel' to mak' sure she did.”
“And what said she?”
“She tauld me to gae awa'. I said it was you, and she said it didna maitter.”
“Didna maitter!” repeated the Chamberlain, viciously, mimicking the eastland accent. “What ails her?”
“Ye ought to ken that best yoursel'. It was the last thing I daur ask her,” said Mungo Boyd, preparing to retreat, but his precaution was not called for, he had stunned his man.
The Chamberlain drew his cloak about him, cold with a contemptuous rebuff. His mouth parched; violent emotions wrought in him, but he recovered in a moment, and did his best to hide his sense of ignominy.
“Oh, well!” said he, “it's a woman's way, Mungo.”
“You'll likely ken,” said Mungo; “I've had sma' troke wi' them mysel'.”
“Lucky man! And now that I mind right, I think it was not to-night I was to come, after all; I must have made a mistake. If you have a chance in the morn's morning you can tell her I wasted a tune or two o' the flageolet on a wheen stars. It is a pleasant thing in stars, Mungo, that ye aye ken where to find them when ye want them!”