“Indeed they gave me their blood freely enough—a thousand of them lying yonder in the north—I wish they had been so lavish, those closest about me, with truth and honour. For that I must depend on an honest servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, the one man in my pay with the courage to confront me with no cloaked speech, but his naked thought, though it should lash me like whips. Oh, many a time my wife, who is none of our race, warned me against the softening influence, the blight and rot of this eternal air of flattery that’s round about Castle Inneraora like a swamp vapour. She’s in Stirling to-day—I ken it in my heart that to-night shell weep upon her pillow because she’ll know fate has found the weak joint in her goodman’s armour again.”
John Splendid’s brow came down upon a most perplexed face; this seemed all beyond him, but he knew his master was somehow blaming the world at large for his own error.
“Come now, John,” said his lordship, turning and leaning on his arm and looking curiously at his kinsman. “Come now, what do you think of me here without a wound but at the heart, with Auchinbreac and all my gallant fellows yonder?”
“Auchinbreac was a soldier by trade and a good one too,” answered M’Iver, at his usual trick of prevarication.
“And a flatterer like yourself, you mean,” said his lordship. “He and you learned the lesson in the same school, I’m thinking. And as ill-luck had it, his ill counsel found me on the swither, as yours did when Colkitto came down the glens there to rape and burn. That’s the Devil for you; he’s aye planning to have the minute and the man together. Come, sir, come, sir, what do you think, what do you think?”
He rose as he spoke and put his knees below him, and leaned across the bed with hands upon the blankets, staring his kinsman in the face as if he would pluck the truth from him out at the very eyes. His voice rose to an animal cry with an agony in it; the sinister look that did him such injustice breathed across his visage. His knuckle and collar-bones shone blae through the tight skin.
“What do I think?” echoed M’Iver. “Well, now——”
“On your honour now,” cried Argile, clutching him by the shoulder.
At that M’Iver’s countenance changed: he threw off his soft complacence, and cruelty and temper stiffened his jaw.
“I’ll soon give you that, my Lord of Argile,” said he. “I can lie like a Dutch major for convenience sake, but put me on honour and you’ll get the truth if it cost me my life. Purgatory’s your portion, Argile, for a Sunday’s work that makes our name a mock to-day across the envious world. Take to your books and your preachers, sir—you’re for the cloister and not for the field; and if I live a hundred years, I’ll deny I went with you to Inverlochy. I left my sword in Badenoch, but here’s my dagger” (and he threw it with a clatter on the floor); “it’s the last tool I’ll handle in the service of a scholar. To-morrow the old big wars for me; Hebron’s troopers will welcome an umquhile comrade, and I’ll find no swithering captains among the cavaliers in France.”