Once more in the king’s room, from which, earlier in the day they had set out so confidently, MacDonald flung himself upon a bench, but the king paced up and down the apartment. The former thought the latter was ruminating on the conditions that had been wrung from him, but the first words of the king proved his mistake.
“Jamie, you hardly gave me fair play, you and your Gaelic, with that dainty offspring of so grim a sire.”
“Master of Ballengeich,” replied the Highlander, “a man plays for his own hand. You should have learned the Gaelic long ago.”
The king stopped abruptly in his walk.
“Why do you call me by that name?”
“Merely to show that in this ploy the royal prerogative is not brought into play; it is already settled that when I meet the king, I am defeated. It remains to be seen what luck plain James MacDonald has in a contest with plain James Stuart.”
“Oh, it’s to be a contest then?”
“Not unless you wish it so. I am content to exchange all the fair damsels of Stirling for this one Highland lassie.”
“You’ll exchange!” cried the king. “I make bold to say she is not yours to exchange.”