“Just so; to Inverlochy,” answered M’Iver. “I suppose we are to give them a call when we can muster enough men?”
“Hadn’t we better consider where we are first?” said MacCailein. Then he put his fair hand through his ruddy locks and sighed. “Have you nothing to say (and be done with it) about my—my—my part in the affair? His reverence here has had his will of me on that score.”
M’Iver darted a look of annoyance at the minister, who seemed to pay no heed, but still to have his thoughts far off.
“I have really nothing to say, your lordship, except that I’m glad to see you spared to us here instead of being left a corpse with our honest old kinsman Auchinbreac (beannachd leas!) and more gentry of your clan and house than the Blue Quarry will make tombs for in Kilmalieu. If the minister has been preaching, it’s his trade; it’s what you pay him for. I’m no homilist, thank God, and no man’s conscience.”
“No, no; God knows you are not,” said Argile, in a tone of pity and vexation. “I think I said before that you were the poorest of consciences to a man in a hesitancy between duty and inclination.... And all my guests have left me, John; I’m a lonely man in my castle of Inneraora this day, except for the prayers of a wife—God bless and keep her!—who knows and comprehends my spirit And I have one more friend here in this room———”
“You can count on John M’Iver to the yetts of Hell,” said my friend, “and I am the proud man that you should think it.”
“I am obliged to you for that, kinsman,” said his lordship in Gaelic, with a by-your-leave to the cleric. “But do not give your witless vanity a foolish airing before my chaplain.” Then he added in the English, “When the fairy was at my cradle-side and gave my mother choice of my gifts, I wish she had chosen rowth of real friends. I could be doing with more about me of the quality I mention; better than horse and foot would they be, more trusty than the claymores of my clan. It might be the slogan ‘Cruachan’ whenever it wist, and Archibald of Argile would be more puissant than he of Homer’s story. People have envied me when they have heard me called the King of the Highlands—fools that did not know I was the poorest, weakest man of his time, surrounded by flatterers instead of friends. Gordon, Gordon, I am the victim of the Highland liar, that smooth-tongued——”
“Call it the Campbell liar,” I cried bitterly, thinking of my father. “Your clan has not the reputation of guile for nothing, and if you refused straightforward honest outside counsel sometimes, it was not for the want of its offering.”
“I cry your pardon,” said MacCailein, meekly; “I should have learned to discriminate by now. Blood’s thicker than water, they say, but it’s not so pure and transparent; I have found my blood drumly enough.”
“And ready enough to run freely for you,” said M’Iver, but half comprehending this perplexed mind. “Your lordship should be the last to echo any sentiment directed against the name and fame of Clan Campbell.”