Sir Piers de Currie remained that night in the castle of Rothesay, discussing with Earl Kenric their plans for the coming expedition to the island kings.  But Allan Redmain had to bethink himself of his unwilling task of acting as watchdog on the lonely farmstead of Scalpsie, for the judgment passed upon him in lawful assize was one which he dared not attempt to evade.  To Scalpsie, therefore, he wended his steps without even going homeward to Kilmory to doff the fine attire which he had assumed for the occasion of his presentation to King Alexander, and there, drawing his plaid over his shoulders, he paced to and fro in the dark night —­ from the sheepfold to the steadings and from the steadings back to the sheepfold.

Weary work it was in sooth, and much did he deplore the laws that made it binding upon one of gentle blood to thus demean himself.  He listened to the mournful sound of the waves on the shore, broken sometimes by the bleating of a restless sheep in the fold.  Soon he began to feel his eyelids getting very heavy, and he sought about for a soft bed of heather to lie down upon for a while.  As he was about to curl himself up —­ trusting that if any night-prowling beast should come to play havoc among the farm stock the noise of the sheep and goats would surely awaken him —­ he heard footsteps approaching.

“So, my young watchdog,” said the voice of the farmer Blair, “you have bethought yourself of your charge at last, eh?  Well is it for you that you have not neglected my sheep this night as you did last.  No more shall you send that sleepy-headed lad Lulach to be your proxy, for his sleeping cost me the life of one of my best ewe lambs.  So look you well to your charge now.  Here is a cake of bread to keep you from hunger, and a flagon of good posset to keep you warm —­ ’tis your nightly allowance.  And if it so be that you get drowsy, why, sing yourself a song as do the shipmen in their night watches.  But mind you this, young Kilmory, that for every beast I lose through the slaying of my dog, your father, Sir Oscar Redmain, shall pay me another of equal value.”

“Look you, David Blair,” said Allan warmly, “it is not thus that I will be your watchdog for many nights.  The task, I well know, is but a lawful judgment upon me for my offence, but you have no manner of right to say that I shall send no proxy.  If it please me to send Lulach, then the lad shall come, and I will pay him for his work.  But to come here myself as often as you please, that I shall not do.”

“If Lulach lose me my sheep he cannot return full value for them,” said Blair, bethinking himself of his own interests, “whereas if they be lost by your unwatchfulness, then can I duly claim my own from your father.”

“Why did you refuse the better dog that my father offered you in place of the one I slew?” asked Allan.

“Because,” said the husbandman with simple pride, “it pleases me better to know that my homestead is nightly watched by a brave and gallant man-at-arms, who, I trust, will permit no marauding Norsemen or thieving wolf to come near me while I lie sleeping.”