Young Islay showed his satisfaction in his face.
“But it’s a smaller coat than yours, Captain,” said he, “and easier filled nowadays than when fighting was in fashion. I’m afraid the old school would have the better of us.”
It was a touch of Gaelic courtesy to an elder, well-meant, pardonable; it visibly pleased the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, and he looked more in admiration than before upon this smart young officer.
“Up the Glen yet, Gilian?” said Islay, with the old schoolboy freedom, and Gilian carelessly nodded, his eyes once more roving on the road to Boshang Gate. Young Islay looked at him curiously, a little smile hovering about the corners of his lips, for he knew the dreamer’s reputation.
The Paymaster gave a contemptuous “Humph!” “Up the Glen yet. You may well say it,” said he. “And like to be. It’s a fine clime for stirks.”
Gilian did not hear it, but Miss Mary felt it sting to her very heart, and she moved away, pressing upon her favourite’s arm to bring him with her. “We must be moving,” said she; “Peggy will be scolding about the dinner spoiled with waiting.”
But no one else seemed willing to break up the group. Young Islay had become the centre of attraction. MacGibbon and Major Hall, the Sheriff, Mr. Spencer and the dominie, listened to his words as to a sage, gratified by his robust and handsome youth, and the Turners had him by the arm and questioned him upon his experience. Major Mac-Nicol, ludicrous in a bottle-green coat with abrupt tails and an English beaver hat of an ancient pattern, jinked here and there among the people, tip-toeing, round shouldered, with eyes peering and alarmed, jerking his head across his shoulder at intervals to see that no musket barrel threatened, and at times, for a moment or two, he would hang upon the outskirts of Young Islay’s levée, with a hand behind an ear to listen to his story, filled for a little space with a wave of vague and bitter recollection that never broke upon the shore of solid understanding, enchanted by a gleam of red and gold, the colours of glory and of youth.
“Let us go home,” whispered Miss Mary, pulling gently at Gilian’s coat.
“Wait, wait, no hurry for cold kail hot again,” said the Paymaster, every instinct for gossip alert and eager.
“And you showed him the qualities of a Highland riposte! Good lad! Good lad! I’m glad that Sandy and you learned something of the art of fence before they tried you in the Stirling fashion,” General Turner was saying. “You’ll be home for a while won’t you? Come up and see us at Maam; no ceremony, a bird, a soldier’s jug, and——”