“You saved him at Portree,” was all that Donald could say.
“I paid a debt to him and to Cumberland. The ledger is now balanced.”
The Jacobite paced up and down the room for a minute, then stopped and touched the other on his shoulder where he sat.
“I too am somewhat in your debt, Sir Robert. When Montagu opposed you he fought for his own hand. Therein he was justified. But I, an outsider, interfered in a quarrel that was not mine own, spoiled sport for you, in short lost you the lassie. You followed her to Scotland; ’twas I that drove you back to England when Montagu was powerless. From first to last I am the rock on which your love bark has split. If your cause has spelled failure I alone am to blame.”
“So? What then?”
“Why this: without Captain Donald Roy Macdonald the lad had been helpless. Donald was at his back to whisper words of advice and encouragement. Donald contrived the plot which separated you from the lady. Donald stood good fairy to the blessed pair of bairns and made of himsel’ a match-making auld mither. You owe your hatred to Donald Roy and not to the lad who was but his instrument.”
The macaroni looked at the other with an odd smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“And so?”
“And so,” continued the Macdonald triumphantly, a challenge in his voice and manner, “and so, who but Donald should be your enemy? My certes, a prettier foe at the broadsword you will not find in a’ Scotland.”
“I do not quite take your meaning. Would you fight with me?”