"Pshaw," cried Laurence, "I never yet saw the lass I liked better than myself. And I never expect to see one that I shall like better than the fat revenues of the Abbacy of Dulce Cor!"
He paused a moment as if roguishly considering some point.
"Besides," he went on, "wed I may not, but woo—that is another matter! I have never yet heard that an Abbot—"
"Good-day!" cried Sholto, suddenly, at this point, "I will not stay to hear you blaspheme!"
And leaving his father and Laurence to ride westward he turned him back towards Thrieve.
"I will surely return to-morrow," cried Malise; "I must first see this gay bird safely in mew. Aye, and bid the Abbot William clip his wings too!"
So in the gay morning sunshine and with the reflection of the lift glinting dark blue from tarn and lakelet, Sholto MacKim rode towards the Castle of Thrieve. He bethought him on all that was bygone. The Avondales were gone, James the Gross might die any moment—might even now be dead and William Douglas be Earl in his place!
He thought over William of Avondale's last words to himself, spoken with deep solemnity and in all the dignity of a great spirit.
"Sholto, you and yours have brought to justice the chief betrayer. The time is at hand when, having the power, I will settle with Crichton and Livingston, the lesser villains. And in that count and reckoning you must be my right-hand man. Keep your Countess, the sweet young Margaret, safe for my sake. She is very precious to me—indeed, beyond my life. And for this time fare you well!"
And he had reached a mailed hand to the captain of the Douglas guard, and when Sholto would have bent his head upon it to kiss it, William of Avondale gripped his suddenly as one grasps a comrade's hand when the heart is touched, and so was gone.