Up came his valet and stood at his arm, his blade out, and his whole body ready to spring at a signal from his master.
I kept my anger out of my head, and sunk to the pit of my stomach while I spoke to him. “You have said too much about Archibald, Marquis of Argile,” I said. “A week or two ago, the quarrel was more properly M’Iver’s; now that he’s severed by his own act from the clan, I’m ready to take his place and chastise you for your insolence. Are you willing, John?” I asked, turning to my friend.
“If I cannot draw a sword for my cousin I can at least second his defender,” he answered quickly. MacLachlan’s colour came back; he looked from one to the other of us, and made an effort to laugh with cunning.
“There’s more here than I can fathom, gentlemen.” said he. “I’ll swear this is a forced quarrel; but in any case I fear none of you. Alasdair,” he said, turning to his man, who it seemed was his dalta or foster-brother, “we’ll accommodate those two friends of ours when and where they like.”
“Master,” cried the gillie, “I would like well to have this on my own hands,” and he looked at me with great venom as he spoke.
MacLachlan laughed. “They may do their dangerous work by proxy in this part of the shire,” said he; “but I think our own Cowal ways are better; every man his own quarrel.”
“And now is the time to settle it,” said I; “the very place for our purpose is less than a twenty minutes’ walk off.”
Not a word more was said; the four of us stepped out again.