“And now, my good friend of the Mist,” said he, “can you tell me what has become of your hopeful grandson, as I have not seen him since he assisted me to disarm after the action, a negligence which deserveth the strapado?”

“He is not far from hence,” said the wounded outlaw—­“lift not your hand upon him, for he is man enough to pay a yard of leathern scourge with a foot of tempered steel.”

“A most improper vaunt,” said Sir Dugald; “but I owe you some favours, Ranald, and therefore shall let it pass.”

“And if you think you owe me anything,” said the outlaw, “it is in your power to requite me by granting me a boon.”

“Friend Ranald,” answered Dalgetty, “I have read of these boons in silly story-books, whereby simple knights were drawn into engagements to their great prejudice; wherefore, Ranald, the more prudent knights of this day never promise anything until they know that they may keep their word anent the premises, without any displeasure or incommodement to themselves.  It may be, you would have me engage the female chirurgeon to visit your wound; though you ought to consider, Ranald, that the uncleanness of the place where you are deposited may somewhat soil the gaiety of her garments, concerning the preservation of which, you may have observed, women are apt to be inordinately solicitous.  I lost the favour of the lady of the Grand Pensionary of Amsterdam, by touching with the sole of my boot the train of her black velvet gown, which I mistook for a foot-cloth, it being half the room distant from her person.”

“It is not to bring Annot Lyle hither,” answered MacEagh, “but to transport me into the room where she is in attendance upon the Knight of Ardenvohr.  Somewhat I have to say of the last consequence to them both.”

“It is something out of the order of due precedence,” said Dalgetty, “to carry a wounded outlaw into the presence of a knight; knighthood having been of yore, and being, in some respects, still, the highest military grade, independent always of commissioned officers, who rank according to their patents; nevertheless, as your boon, as you call it, is so slight, I shall not deny compliance with the same.”  So saying, he ordered three files of men to transport MacEagh on their shoulders to Sir Duncan Campbell’s apartment, and he himself hastened before to announce the cause of his being brought thither.  But such was the activity of the soldiers employed, that they followed him close at the heels, and, entering with their ghastly burden, laid MacEagh on the floor of the apartment.  His features, naturally wild, were now distorted by pain; his hands and scanty garments stained with his own blood, and those of others, which no kind hand had wiped away, although the wound in his side had been secured by a bandage.

“Are you,” he said, raising his head painfully towards the couch where lay stretched his late antagonist, “he whom men call the Knight of Ardenvohr?”