The mood of the Gael chimed with the present mood of the Saxon.  As unlike in their natures as their histories, men would have called them; and yet, far away, in dim recesses of the soul, at long distances from the flesh, each recognised the other.  And it was an evening, too, in which to take care of other things than the ways and speech of every day.  The heat, the hush, and the stillness appeared well-nigh preternatural.  A sadness breathed over the earth; all things seemed new and yet old; across the spectral river the dim plains beneath the afterglow took the seeming of battlefields.

“A friend!” said Haward.  “There are many men who call themselves my friends.  I am melancholy to-day, restless, and divided against myself.  I do not know one of my acquaintance whom I would have called to be melancholy with me as I have called you.”  He leaned across the table and touched MacLean’s hand that was somewhat hurriedly fingering the wineglass.  “Come!” he said.  “Loneliness may haunt the level fields as well as the ways that are rugged and steep.  How many times have we held converse since that day I found you in charge of my store?  Often enough, I think, for each to know the other’s quality.  Our lives have been very different, and yet I believe that we are akin.  For myself, I should be glad to hold as my friend so gallant though so unfortunate a gentleman.”  He smiled and made a gesture of courtesy.  “Of course Mr. MacLean may very justly not hold me in a like esteem, nor desire a closer relation.”

MacLean rose to his feet, and stood gazing across the river at the twilight shore and the clear skies.  Presently he turned, and his eyes were wet.  He drew his hand across them; then looked curiously at the dew upon it.  “I have not done this,” he said simply, “since a night at Preston when I wept with rage.  In my country we love as we hate, with all the strength that God has given us.  The brother of my spirit is to me even as the brother of my flesh....  I used to dream that my hand was at your throat or my sword through your heart, and wake in anger that it was not so ... and now I could love you well.”

Haward stood up, and the two men clasped hands.  “It is a pact, then,” said the Englishman.  “By my faith, the world looks not so melancholy gray as it did awhile ago.  And here is Juba to say that supper waits.  Lay the table for two, Juba.  Mr. MacLean will bear me company.”

The storekeeper stayed late, the master of Fair View being an accomplished gentleman, a very good talker, and an adept at turning his house for the nonce into the house of his guest.  Supper over they went into the library, where their wine was set, and where the Highlander, who was no great reader, gazed respectfully at the wit and wisdom arow before him.  “Colonel Byrd hath more volumes at Westover,” quoth Haward, “but mine are of the choicer quality.”  Juba brought a card table, and lit more candles, while his master, unlocking a desk, took from it a number