“He was wounded at Culloden. You know that?”
“So I have heard.” Then he added dryly, some imp of mischief stirring him: “In the heel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, in the foot,” I told him hastily. “I suppose you do not doubt the valour of the Captain’s clan any more than his own.”
“Devil a bit!” he answered carelessly. “I’ve seen them fight too often to admit of any question as to their courage at all, at all. For sheer daring I never saw the beat of the Highland troops—especially if there chanced to be any plunder on the other side of the enemy, Egad!”
I turned to Donald Roy, who was sullenly waiting for me to have done. “Are you satisfied, Captain, that Tony meant to impute nothing against you or your men?”
“Oich! Oich!” he grumbled. “I wass thinking I heard some other dirty sneers.”
“If the sneers were unjust I retract them with the best will in the world. Come, Captain Macdonald, sure ’tis not worth our while doing the work of the redcoats for them. ’Slife, ’tis not fair to Jack Ketch!” exclaimed the Irishman.
“Right, Donald! Why, you fire-eating Hotspur, you began it yourself with a fling at the Irish. Make up, man! Shake hands with Tony, and be done with your bile.”
Creagh offered his hand, smiling, and his smile was a handsome letter of recommendation. Donald’s face cleared, and he gripped heartily the hand of the other.
“With great pleasure, and gin I said anything offensive I eat my words at all events,” he said.