“Quite right,” and the king nodded approval. “Ask him if he knows as well the second duty of a huntsman.”
Ronald’s eye flashed as he gave his answer with a vehemence that caused the chief huntsman to move still farther away from him.
“He says, your majesty,” translated MacNeish, “that the second duty of a huntsman is to cut the throat of any cateran who presumes to interfere with the progress of the provender from the forest to his master’s kitchen.”
“Right again,” cried the king, smiting his thigh, “and an answer worthy of all commendation. Tell him this, MacNeish, that hereafter he is the chief huntsman to the Castle of Stirling. We will place this cowardly hellion in the kitchen where he will be safe from the hungry frenzy of a Buchanan, drunk or sober.”
“But, your majesty—” protested the deposed ranger.
“To the kitchen with him!” sternly commanded the king. “Strip off the woodlander’s jacket he has disgraced and tie round him the strings of a scullion’s apron, which will suit his middle better than the belt of a sword.” Then the king, flashing forth his own weapon and stepping aside, swung it over the head of the Highlander, who stood like a statue in spite of the menace, and the sword came down with a deft accuracy which severed the binding cords without touching the person of the prisoner, freeing him at a stroke. A murmur of admiration at the dexterity of the king went up from the assemblage, every member of which was himself an expert with the weapon. The freed Highlander raised his brawny arms above his head and gave startling vent to the war-cry of his clan, “Loch Sloy! Loch Sloy!” unmindful of the presence in which he stood. Then he knelt swiftly and brought his lips to the buckle of the king’s shoe.
“Gratitude in a MacFarlane!” sneered MacNeish.
“Aye,” said the king, “and bravery too, for he never winked an eyelash when the sword swung above him; an admirable combination of qualities whether in a MacFarlane or a MacNeish. And now, gentlemen,” continued his majesty, “although the affair of the huntsman is settled, it brings us no nearer our venison. If the cook will not to the king, then must the king to the cook. Gentlemen, to your arms and your horses! They say a Scotsman fights well when he is hungry; let us put the proverb to the test. We ride and dine with his majesty of Kippen.”
A spontaneous cheer burst from every man in the great hall to the accompaniment of a rattle of swords. Most of those present were more anxious to follow the king to a contest than into a council chamber. When silence ensued, the mild voice of the archbishop, perhaps because it was due to his profession, put in a seasonable word; and the nobles scowled for they knew he had great influence with the king.