“My dear friends of Monday did me the honour to call in your absence,” he said. “They have not gone more than twenty minutes.”
“What! the Macfarlanes,” cried Doom, every trace of his softer emotion gone, but more disturbed than ever as he saw the sword for the first time. “Well—well—well?” he inquired eagerly.
“Well, well, well?” and he gripped Count Victor by the arm and looked him in the eyes.
“Nothing serious happened,” replied Count Victor, “except that your domestics suffered some natural alarms.”
Doom seemed wonderously relieved. “The did not force an entrance?” said he.
“They did their best, but failed. I pricked one slightly before I fell back on Mungo's barricades; that and some discomfiture from Mistress Annapla's punch-bowl completed the casualties.”
“Well? well? well?” cried Lamond, still waking something. Count Victor only looked at him in wonder, and led the way to the door where Mungo drew back the bars and met his master with a trembling front. A glance of mute inquiry and intelligence passed between the servant and his master: the Frenchman saw it and came to his own conclusions, but nothing was said till the Baron had made a tour of investigation through the house and come at last to join his guest in the salle, where the embers of the fire were raked together on the hearth and fed with new peat. The Count and his host sat down together, and when Mungo had gone to prepare some food for his master, Count Victor narrated the night's adventure. He had an excited listener—one more excited, perhaps, than the narrative of itself might account for.
“And there is much that is beyond my poor comprehension,” continued Count Victor, looking at him as steadfastly as good breeding would permit.
“Eh?” said Doom, stretching fingers that trembled to the peat-flame that stained his face like wine.
“Your servant Mungo was quite unnecessarily solicitous for my safety, and took the trouble to put me under lock and key.”