The king, glancing over his shoulder, saw standing against the wall a row of brawny gillies, each two of whom supported a stretcher, whose use was at once apparent.
“Very well,” cried the king to his host; “give you a suitable toast, MacLeod, and I will enter with you the rosy realms of the red wine.”
MacLeod then stood up.
“I give you,” he said, “the King of Scotland. May he be blest with more wisdom than were some of his ancestors!” This he repeated in Gaelic, and the sentiment was received uproariously, for the wine was already making itself felt in the great hall.
If MacLeod had any design in offering this toast it did not appear on the surface, and if he expected a hesitancy on the part of his guests to do honour to it, he was disappointed, for each young man rose with the rest.
“Here’s to the king!” cried the one on his right, “and may he imbibe wisdom as I imbibe wine.” Then raising the flagon to his lips he drained it dry and set it with a crash on the table again.
MacLeod and MacDonald drank more slowly, but they ultimately achieved the same end. Then all seated themselves once more, and the drinking continued without the useless intervention of further talk. One by one the revellers sank under the table unnoticed by their noisy comrades, to be quickly pounced upon by the watchful stretcher-bearers, who, with a deftness evidently the result of much practice, placed the helpless individual on the carrier and marched off with him. This continuous disappearance of the fallen rapidly thinned the ranks of the combatants struggling with the giant Bacchus.
The king had been reluctant to enter this contest, fearing the red wine would loosen his tongue, but as the evening wore on he found all his resolution concentrated in a determination to walk to his bed. MacDonald proved no protection. Early in the bout his unaccustomed head descended gently upon the table and he was promptly carried off to rest.
At last MacLeod and the king sat alone in the hall, that looked larger now it was so nearly empty; and James, as a test of what sense remained to him, set himself to count the torches burning more and more dimly in the haze of their own smoke. But he gave up the attempt when he saw that they had increased by hundreds and thousands, and were engaged in a wild pyrotechnic dance to the rhythm of the last march that had been played on the pipes. He swayed over towards his host and smote him uncertainly on the shoulder.
“MacLeod,” he cried, “I challenge you to stand, and I’ll wager you I can walk further down the corridor with fewer collisions against either wall than any man in Skye.”