“Where did you get it?”

“There was an Italian who owed my uncle a debt.  He had no money, so he gave him this.  He said that it was painted a long time ago and that it was very fine.”

“What is it?”

“It is a Bible piece.  This is a city of refuge.  This is a sinner fleeing to it, and here behind him is the avenger of blood.  You can’t see, it is so dark.  There!” He drew the window-curtain quite aside.  A flood of light came in and washed the picture.

“I see.  What is it doing here?”

“I don’t know.  I liked it.  I suppose Aunt Alison thought it might hang here.”

“I like to see pictures in my mind.  But things like that poison me!  Let’s see the rest of the house.”

They went again through Ian’s room.  Coming to a fine carved ambry, he hesitated, then stood still.  “I’m going to show you something else!  I show it to you because I trust you.  It’s like your telling me about your making gold out of lead.”  He opened a door of the ambry, pulled out a drawer, and, pressing some spring, revealed a narrow, secret shelf.  His hand went into the dimness and came out bearing a silver goblet.  This he set carefully upon a neighboring table, and looked at Alexander somewhat aslant out of long, golden-brown eyes.

“It’s a bonny goblet,” said Alexander.  “Why do you keep it like that?”

Ian looked around him.  “Years and years ago my father, who is dead now, was in France.  There was a banquet at Saint-Germain. A very great person gave it and was in presence himself.  All the gentlemen his guests drank a toast for which the finest wine was poured in especial goblets.  Afterward each was given for a token the cup from which he drank....  Before he died my father gave me this.  But of course I have to keep it secret.  My uncle and all the world around here are Whigs!”

“James Stewart!” quoth Alexander.  “Humph!”

“Remember that you have not seen it,” said Ian, “and that I never said aught to you but King George, King George!” With that he restored the goblet to the secret shelf, put back the drawer, and shut the ambry door.  “Friends trust one another in little and big.—­Now let’s go see Aunt Alison.”

They went in silence along a corridor where every footfall was subdued in India matting.  Alexander spoke once: 

“I feel all through me that we’re friends.  But you’re a terrible fool there!”

“I am not,” said Ian.  His voice carried the truth of his own feeling.  “I am like my father and mother and the chieftains my kin, and I have been with certain kings ever since there were kings.  Others think otherwise, but I’ve got my rights!”

With that they came to the open door of a room.  A voice spoke from within: 

“Ian!”

Ian crossed the threshold.  “May we come in, Aunt Alison?  It’s Alexander Jardine of Glenfernie.”

A tall, three-leaved screen pictured with pagodas, palms, and macaws stood between the door and the rest of the room.  “Come, of course!” said the voice behind this.