“Halt, Sir Donald!”
Sir Donald Sinclair obeyed the command so suddenly that his horse’s front feet tore up the turf as he reined back, while his sharp order to the troop behind him brought the company to an almost instantaneous stand.
“Sir Donald,” said the king, “I am for Stirling with my two friends here. See that we are not followed, and ask this hilarious company to disperse quietly to their homes. Do it kindly, Sir Donald. There is no particular hurry, and they have all the afternoon before them. Bring your troop back to Stirling in an hour or two.”
“Will your majesty not take my horse?” asked Sir Donald Sinclair.
“No, Donald,” replied the king with a smile, glancing down at his rags. “Scottish horsemen have always looked well in the saddle; yourself are an example of that, and I have no wish to make this costume fashionable as a riding suit.”
The sheriff who stood by with dropped jaw, now flung himself on his knees and craved pardon for laying hands on the Lord’s anointed.
“The least said of that the better,” remarked the king drily. “But if you are sorry, sheriff, that the people should be disappointed at not seeing a man hanged, I think you would make a very good substitute for my big friend Baldy here.”
The sheriff tremulously asserted that the populace were but too pleased at this exhibition of the royal clemency.
“If that is the case then,” replied his majesty, “we shall not need to trouble you. And so, farewell to you!”