“How strange!” exclaimed Morton, involuntarily, for he had heard that name frequently repeated at Lunnasting, and had been taught to consider the possessor of the title certainly not in a favourable light.
The priest, as Ronald said this, gave him a glance as if he would look through him to his inmost soul, and yet he spoke softly and blandly as he asked, “Why so? Why strange, sir?”
“It is a name I frequently heard in my boyhood,” answered Ronald, not supposing that there was the slightest necessity for being on his guard with the mild-looking priest.
“That is strange,” repeated the priest. “Where was your boyhood passed, may I ask?” said the priest.
Ronald told him, “Chiefly in the castle of Lunnasting, in Shetland.”
Again the priest gave a piercing glance at him.
“May I inquire your name?”
“I am called Ronald Morton.”
“You say you are called so. Will it appear impertinent if I ask if you believe that you have the right to bear another?” said the priest.
“Why do you put the question?” was Ronald’s very natural demand.