Another day and night passed.  He watched the sun climb toward noon, and as the day grew warm he heard a step upon the hidden path.  With a pistol in either hand he moved, as stealthily, as silently as might be, to a platform of rock that overhung the way of the intruder.  In another moment the latter was in sight—­one man climbing steadily the path to the old robber fastness.  He saw that it was Glenfernie.  No one followed him.  He came on alone.

Rullock put by his pistols and, moving to a chair of rock, sat there.  The other’s great frame rose level with him, stepped upon the rocky floor.  Ian had been growing to feel an anger at solitude.  When he saw Alexander he had not been able to check an inner movement of welcome.  He felt an old—­he even felt a new—­affection for the being upon whom, certainly, he had leaned.  There flowed in, in an impatient wave, the consideration that he must hate....

But Glenfernie hated.  Ian rose to face him.

“So you’ve found your way to my castle?  It is a climb!  You had best sit and rest yourself.  I have my sword now, and I will give you satisfaction.”

Glenfernie nodded.  He sat upon a piece of fallen rock.  “Yes, I will rest first, thank you!  I have searched since dawn, and the mountain is steep.  Besides, I want to talk to you.”

Ian brought from his cupboard oat-cake and a flask of brandy.  The other shook his head.

“I had food at sunrise, and I drank from a spring below.”

“Very good!”

The laird of Glenfernie sat looking down the mountain-sides and over to far hills and moving clouds, much as he used to sit in the crook of the old pine outside the broken wall at Glenfernie.  There was a trick of posture when he was at certain levels within himself.  Ian knew it well.

“Perhaps I should tell you,” said Alexander, “that I came alone through the pass and that I have been alone for some days.  If there are soldiers near I do not know of them.”

“It is not necessary,” answered Ian.  While he spoke he saw in a flash both that his confidence was profound that it was not necessary, and that that incapacity to betray that might be predicated of Old Steadfast was confined to but one of the two upon this rock.  The enlightenment stung, then immediately brought out a reaction.  “To each some specialty in error!  I no more than he am monstrous!” There arose a desire to defend himself, to show Old Steadfast certain things.  He spoke.  “We are going to fight presently—­”

“Yes.”

“That’s understood.  Now listen to me a little!  For long years we were together, friends near and warm!  You knew that I saw differently from you in regard to many things—­in regard, for instance, to women.  I remember old discussions....  Well, you differed, and sometimes you were angry.  But for all that, friendship never went out with violence!  You knew the ancient current that I swam in—­that it was narrower, more mixed with earth, than your own!  But you were tolerant.  You took me as I was....  What has developed was essentially there then, and you knew it.  The difference is that at last it touched what you held to be your own.  Then, and not till then, the sinner became anathema!”