“I mind them.”
“Then say them.”
“I will not!” he shouted loud and fierce, clattering his gun on the floor and leaping to his feet. His sword was in his hand, and he pointed it threateningly at me.
“You will not say your mother’s prayer,” I answered; “then I will say it for you.”
“No, you shall not, Quintin MacClellan,” he growled. “If it comes to that, I will say it myself. What ken you about my mother’s prayer?”
“I have a mother of mine own, and not once nor twice she hath said a prayer for me.”
The point of the sword dropped. He stood silent.
“Her hands were on your head,” I suggested, “you had finished your prayers. It was in the turret chamber that looks to the north.”
“I ken—I ken!” he cried, turning his head this way and that like a beast tied and tormented.
But in his eyes there grew a far-away look. The convulsive fingers loosened on the sword-hilt. The blade fell unheeded to the ground and lay beside the empty musket.