Haward tapped with his finger the bit of painted pasteboard before him.  “I play the king,” he repeated, in an even voice; then struck a bell, and when Juba appeared ordered the negro to bring wine and to stir the fire.  The flames, leaping up, lent strange animation to the face of the lady above the mantelshelf, and a pristine brightness to the swords crossed beneath the painting.  The slave moved about the room, drawing the curtains more closely, arranging all for the night.  While he was present the players gave their attention to the game, but with the sound of the closing door MacLean laid down his cards.

“I must speak,” he said abruptly.  “The girl’s face haunts me.  You do wrong.  It is not the act of a gentleman.”

The silence that followed was broken by Haward, who spoke in the smooth, slightly drawling tones which with him spelled irritation and sudden, hardly controlled anger.  “It is my home-coming,” he said.  “I am tired, and wish to-night to eat only of the lotus.  Will you take up your cards again?”

A less impetuous man than MacLean, noting the signs of weakness, fatigue, and impatience, would have waited, and on the morrow have been listened to with equanimity.  But the Highlander, fired by his cause, thought not of delay.  “To forget!” he exclaimed.  “That is the coward’s part!  I would have you remember:  remember yourself, who are by nature a gentleman and generous; remember how alone and helpless is the girl; remember to cease from this pursuit!”

“We will leave the cards, and say good-night,” said Haward, with a strong effort for self-control.

“Good-night with all my heart!” cried the other hotly,—­“when you have promised to lay no further snare for that maid at your gates, whose name you have blasted, whose heart you have wrung, whose nature you have darkened and distorted”—­

“Have you done?” demanded Haward.  “Once more, ’t were wise to say good-night at once.”

“Not yet!” exclaimed the storekeeper, stretching out an eager hand.  “That girl hath so haunting a face.  Haward, see her not again!  God wot, I think you have crushed the soul within her, and her name is bandied from mouth to mouth.  ’T were kind to leave her to forget and be forgotten.  Go to Westover:  wed the lady there of whom you raved in your fever.  You are her declared suitor; ’tis said that she loves you”—­

Haward drew his breath sharply and turned in his chair.  Then, spent with fatigue, irritable from recent illness, sore with the memory of the meeting by the river, determined upon his course and yet deeply perplexed, he narrowed his eyes and began to give poisoned arrow for poisoned arrow.

“Was it in the service of the Pretender that you became a squire of dames?” he asked. “’Gad, for a Jacobite you are particular!”

MacLean started as if struck, and drew himself up.  “Have a care, sir!  A MacLean sits not to hear his king or his chief defamed.  In future, pray remember it.”