“I must first know more of thee,” said Kintail. “I can give no promise until I know who thou art.”
“I said I was a MacDonell,” replied the other.
“That is a wide name,” said Kintail. “Heaven knows that for the peace of the earth it holds too many that bear that name.”
“That may be as men may think,” said the stranger, with greater quickness of articulation.
“What MacDonell art thou, then?” demanded Kintail. “Pray, unmuffle thy face.”
“One MacDonell is like another,” said the stranger carelessly.
“That answer will not serve me,” said Kintail. “I must see thy face. And methinks it is a bad sign of thee, that thou shouldst be ashamed to show it.”
“Ashamed!” said the stranger, with emphasis—and then, as if commanding himself,—“In times of feud like these,” added he, after a pause, “thou canst not ask me to uncover my face before so promiscuous a company as this, where, for aught I know, I may have some sworn and deadly personal enemies, who may seek to do me wrong. But give me thy solemn pledge, Lord Kintail, that I shall suffer no skaith, and then thou shalt see my face.”
“I swear to thee before this goodly assemblage,” said Kintail, “that whoever thou mayest be, or whatever enemies of thine may be amongst us, thou shalt be skaith-less. Nay, more; for thy brave bearing thou shalt have free assoilzieing from outlawry and all other penalties, be thou whom thou mayest, with one exception alone.”
“Whom dost thou except?” demanded the stranger, eagerly advancing his body, but without unveiling his face.