“It iss well for him he will hef such a champion,” said Mackenzie with a smile:  “there is not many Sheila will pay attention to as she does to you.”

They went in-doors again, Ingram scarcely knowing how he had got so easily through the ordeal, but very glad it was over.

Sheila was still at the piano, and on their entering she said, “Papa, here is a song you must learn to sing with me.”

“And what iss it, Sheila?” he said, going over to her.

“‘Time has not thinned my flowing hair.’”

He put his hand on her head and said, “I hope it will be a long time before he will thin your hair, Sheila.”

The girl looked up surprised.  Scotch folks are, as a rule, somewhat reticent in their display of affection, and it was not often that her father talked to her in that way.  What was there in his face that made her glance instinctively toward Ingram.  Somehow or other her hand sought her father’s hand, and she rose and went away from the piano, with her head bent down and tears beginning to tell in her eyes.

“Yes, that is a capital song,” said Ingram loudly.  Sing ’The Arethusa,’ Lavender—­’Said the saucy Arethusa.’”

Lavender, knowing what had taken place, and not daring to follow with his eyes Sheila and her father, who had gone to the other end of the room, sang the song.  Never was a gallant and devil-may-care sea-song sung so hopelessly without spirit.  But the piano made a noise and the verses took up time.  When he had finished he almost feared to turn round, and yet there was nothing dreadful in the picture that presented itself.  Sheila was sitting on her father’s knee, with her head buried in his bosom, while he was patting her head and talking in a low voice to her.  The King of Borva did not look particularly fierce.

“Yes, it iss a teffle of a good song,” he said suddenly.  “Now get up, Sheila, and go and tell Mairi we will have a bit of bread and cheese before going to bed.  And there will be a little hot water wanted in the other room, for this room it iss too full of the smoke.”

Sheila, as she went out of the room, had her head cast down and perhaps an extra tinge of color in her young and pretty face.  But surely, Lavender thought to himself as he watched her anxiously, she did not look grieved.  As for her father, what should he do now?  Turn suddenly round and beg Mackenzie’s pardon, and throw himself on his generosity?  When he did, with much inward trembling, venture to approach the old man, he found no such explanation possible.  The King of Borva was in one of his grandest moods—­dignified, courteous, cautious, and yet inclined to treat everybody and everything with a sort of lofty good-humor.  He spoke to Lavender in the most friendly way, but it was about the singular and startling fact that modern research had proved many of the Roman legends to be utterly untrustworthy.  Mr. Mackenzie observed that the man was wanting in proper courage who feared to accept the results of such inquiries.  It was better that we should know the truth, and then the kings who had really made Rome great might emerge from the fog of tradition in their proper shape.  There was something quite sympathetic in the way he talked of those ill-treated sovereigns, whom the vulgar mind had clothed in mist.