With difficulty the king rose to his feet, and as he did so the stool on which he sat, because of a lurch against it, fell clattering to the floor.
“The very benches are drunk, MacLeod, and the table sways like a ship at sea. That stool is as insecure as a throne. Rise up if you can and see if yours is any better.”
But the MacLeod sat helpless, glaring at him from under his shaggy eyebrows. Seeing him stationary the king laughed so heartily that he nearly unbalanced himself, and was forced to cling for support to the edge of the table. Then straightening himself to excessive rigidity he muttered,—
“Good-night, MacLeod. Sit there and see the rule of your house broken by your——” If the next word were “monarch,” or “king,” it was never uttered, for as James made his uncertain way towards the door, the expert gillies, who knew their business, came up behind him, swooped the stretcher against his unreliant legs, and they failing instantly, he fell backward on the stoutly woven web between the two poles. There was a guttural laugh from MacLeod, and the prone man helplessly waving his hands, shouted,—
“Unfair, by Saint Andrew, unfair! Curse the foe who attacks a man from the rear.”
The King Sails
