“There's waur nor howtowdy. And oh! I forgot the het victual, there's jugged hare.”
“Is the hare ready?” asked the Baron suspiciously.
“It's no jist a'thegether what ye micht ca' ready,” answered Mungo without hesitation; “but it can be here het in nae time, and micht agree wi' the Count better nor the cauld fowl.”
“Tell Annapla to do the best she can,” broke in the Baron on his servant's cheerful garrulity; and Mungo with another salute disappeared.
“How do your women-folk like the seclusion of Doom?” asked Count Victor, to make conversation while the refection was in preparation. “With the sea about you so, and the gang of my marauding obese friend in the wood behind, I should think you had little difficulty in keeping them under your eye.”
The Baron was obviously confused. “Mungo's quite enough to keep his eye on Annapla,” said he. “He has the heart and fancy to command a garrison; there's a drum forever beating in his head, a whistle aye fifing in his lug, and he will amuse you with his conceits of soldiering ancient and modern, a trade he thinks the more of because Heaven made him so unfit to become 'prentice to it. Good Mungo! There have been worse men; indeed what need I grudge admitting there have been few better? He has seen this place more bien than it is to-day in my father's time, and in my own too before the law-pleas ate us up; you will excuse his Scots freedom of speech, Count, he—”
A shot rang outside in some shrubbery upon the mainland, suddenly putting an end to Doom's conversation. Count Victor, sure that the Macfarlanes were there again, ran to the window and looked out, while his host in the rear bit his lip with every sign of annoyance. As Montaiglon looked he saw Mungo emerge from the shrubbery with a rabbit in his hand and push off hurriedly in a little boat, which apparently was in use for communication with the shore under such circumstances.
“And now,” said the Count, without comment upon what he had seen, “I think, with your kind permission, I shall change my boots before eating.
“There's plenty of time for that, I jalouse,” said Doom, smiling somewhat guiltily, and he showed his guest to a room in the turret. It was up a flight of corkscrew stairs, and lit with singular poverty by an orifice more of the nature of a porthole for a piece than a window, and this port or window, well out in the angle of the turret, commanded a view of the southward wall or curtain of the castle.
Montaiglon, left to himself, opened the bag that Mungo had placed in readiness for him in what was evidently the guest-room of the castle, transformed the travelling half of himself into something that was more in conformity with the gay nature of his upper costume, complacently surveyed the result when finished, and hummed a chanson of Pierre Gringoire's, altogether unremembering the encounter in the wood, the dead robber, and the stern nature of his embassy here so far from France.