“Yes, in various ways.”
MacLeod turned from his loquacious guest as if he desired to hold no further converse with him, and thus, however crafty he might be, he convinced the king that the castle had no suspicion whom it held. MacLeod said abruptly to his other visitor, fastening his piercing eyes upon him,—
“I heard you were prisoner at Stirling?”
“Prisoner, sir!” cried MacDonald angrily, the red colour mounting to the roots of his hair. But before he could speak further his garrulous companion struck in.
“What an absurd rumour. MacDonald a prisoner! I assure you he was no more a prisoner at Stirling Castle than he is at this moment in Dunvegan Castle.”
“Ah,” said McLeod turning again to the farmer, his eyes partially closing, examining the other with more severe scrutiny than had previously been the case. “He was at liberty to come and go as he pleased, then?”
“As free as air, sir; otherwise how could he have visited my slight holding and thus become acquainted with me?”
“I thought perhaps he had met you in the courtyard of Stirling with a sack of corn on your shoulder.”