Truelove shook her head, and slipped her hand into that of her brother Ephraim.  “I thank thee, friend,” she said, with gentle dignity, “and thee, too, Angus MacLean, though I grieve that thee sees not that it is not given us to meet evil with evil, nor to withstand force with force.  Ephraim and I can now go in peace.  I thank thee again, friend, and thee.”  She gave her hand first to Haward, then to MacLean.  The former, knowing the fashion of the Quakers, held the small fingers a moment, then let them drop; the latter, knowing it, too, raised them to his lips and imprinted upon them an impassioned kiss.  Truelove blushed, then frowned, last of all drew her hand away.

With the final glimpse of her gray skirt the Highlander came back to the present.  “Singly I could have answered for them all, one after the other,” he said stiffly.  “Together they had the advantage.  I pay my debt and give you thanks, sir.”

“That is an ugly cut across your forehead,” replied Haward.  “Mr. Ker had best bring you a basin of water.  Or stay!  I am going to my lodging.  Come with me, and Juba shall dress the wound properly.”

MacLean turned his keen blue eyes upon him.  “Am I to understand that you give me a command, or that you extend to me an invitation?  In the latter case, I should prefer”—­

“Then take it as a command,” said Haward imperturbably.  “I wish your company.  Mr. Ker, good-day; I will buy the piece of plate which you showed me yesterday.”

The two moved down the room together, but at the door MacLean, with his face set like a flint, stood aside, and Haward passed out first, then waited for the other to come up with him.

“When I drink a cup I drain it to the dregs,” said the Scot.  “I walk behind the man who commands me.  The way, you see, is not broad enough for you and me and hatred.”

“Then let hatred lag behind,” answered Haward coolly.  “I have negroes to walk at my heels when I go abroad.  I take you for a gentleman, accept your enmity an it please you, but protest against standing here in the hot sunshine.”

With a shrug MacLean joined him.  “As you please,” he said.  “I have in spirit moved with you through London streets.  I never thought to walk with you in the flesh.”

It was yet warm and bright in the street, the dust thick, the air heavy with the odors of the May.  Haward and MacLean walked in silence, each as to the other, one as to the world at large.  Now and again the Virginian must stop to bow profoundly to curtsying ladies, or to take snuff with some portly Councilor or less stately Burgess who, coming from the Capitol, chanced to overtake them.  When he paused his storekeeper paused also, but, having no notice taken of him beyond a glance to discern his quality, needed neither a supple back nor a ready smile.

Haward lodged upon Palace Street, in a square brick house, lived in by an ancient couple who could remember Puritan rule in Virginia, who had served Sir William Berkeley, and had witnessed the burning of Jamestown by Bacon.  There was a grassy yard to the house, and the path to the door lay through an alley of lilacs, purple and white.  The door was open, and Haward and MacLean, entering, crossed the hall, and going into a large, low room, into which the late sunshine was streaming, found the negro Juba setting cakes and wine upon the table.