“And being the day it is,” said Henry, with the same contemptuous indifference, “I pray you to stand out of my light.”
“You are an uncivil person; but her own self is fir nan ord too; and she knows the smith is fiery when the iron is hot.”
“If her nainsell be hammer man herself, her nainsell may make her nain harness,” replied Henry.
“And so her nainsell would, and never fash you for the matter; but it is said, Gow Chrom, that you sing and whistle tunes over the swords and harnishes that you work, that have power to make the blades cut steel links as if they were paper, and the plate and mail turn back steel lances as if they were boddle prins?”
“They tell your ignorance any nonsense that Christian men refuse to believe,” said Henry. “I whistle at my work whatever comes uppermost, like an honest craftsman, and commonly it is the Highlandman’s ‘Och hone for Houghman stares!’ My hammer goes naturally to that tune.”
“Friend, it is but idle to spur a horse when his legs are ham shackled,” said the Highlander, haughtily. “Her own self cannot fight even now, and there is little gallantry in taunting her thus.”
“By nails and hammer, you are right there,” said the smith, altering his tone. “But speak out at once, friend, what is it thou wouldst have of me? I am in no humour for dallying.”
“A hauberk for her chief, Eachin MacIan,” said the Highlander.
“You are a hammer man, you say? Are you a judge of this?” said our smith, producing from a chest the mail shirt on which he had been lately employed.
The Gael handled it with a degree of admiration which had something of envy in it. He looked curiously at every part of its texture, and at length declared it the very best piece of armour that he had ever seen.