Sholto squared his shoulders, and with a little backward hitch of his elbow which meant “Wait till I come back, and I will pay you for this flouting,” he strode determinedly across the green space towards his father.

The master armourer of Earl Douglas did not lift his eyes till his son had half crossed the road.  Then, even as if a rank of spearmen at the word of command had lifted their glittering points to the “ready,” Sholto MacKim stopped dead where he was, with a sort of gasp in his throat, like one who finds his defenceless body breast high against the line of hostile steel.

“The purple velvet!” came the cautious whisper from behind.  But the taunt was powerless now.

The smith held his son a moment with his eyes.

“Well?” came in the deep low voice, more like the lowest tones of an organ than the speech of a man.

Sholto stood fixed, then half turning on his heel he began to walk towards the corner of the dwelling-house, over which a gay streamer of the early creeping convolvulus danced and swung in the stirring of the light breeze.

“You wish speech with me?” said his father, in the same level and thrilling undertone.

“No,” said Sholto, hesitant in spite of himself, “but I thought—­that is I desired—­saw you my sister Magdalen pass this way?  I have somewhat to give her.”

“Ah, so,” said Brawny Kim, without moving, “a steel breastplate, belike.  Thou hast the brace-buckle in thy hand.  Doth the little Magdalen go with you to the weapon-show to-morrow?”

“No, father,” said Sholto, stammering, “but I was uneasy for the child.  It is full an hour since I heard her voice.”

“Then,” said his father, “finish your work, put out the fire, and go seek your sister.”

Sholto brought his hands together and made the little inclination of the head which was a sign of filial respect.  Then, solemn as if he had been in his place in the ordered line of the Earl’s first levy of archer men, he turned him about and went back to the smithy.

Laurence lay all abroad on the heap of charcoal of which the armourer’s welding fire was made.  He was fairly expiring with laughter, and when his brother angrily kicked him in the ribs, he only waggled an ineffectual hand and feebly crowed in his throat like a cock, in his efforts to stifle the sounds of mirth.

“Get up, fool,” hissed his angry brother; “help me with this accursed hammer-striking, or I will make an end of such a giggling lout as you.  Here, hold up.”

And seizing his younger brother by the collar of his blue working blouse, he dragged him upon his feet.

“Now, by the saints,” said Sholto, “if you cast your gibes upon me, by Saint Andrew I will break every bone in your idiot’s body.”

“The purple velvet—­oh, the purple velvet!” gasped Laurence, as soon as he could recover speech, “and the eyes of Maud Lindesay!”

“That will teach you to think rather of the eyes of Laurence MacKim!” cried Sholto, and without more ado he hit his brother with his clinched knuckles a fair blow on the bridge of his nose.