“A fair good morrow to you, my lord,” said the smith.  “Grievous as my sin has been, and just as is your resentment, give me leave to say that I have suffered more than my deserts from the ill-made chains and uncouth manacles wherewith they confined me in the black dungeon down there.  I trow they must have been the workmanship of Ninian Lamont the Highlandman, who dares to call himself house-smith of Thrieve.  I am ready to die if it be your will, my lord; but if you are well advised you will hang Ninian beside me with a bracelet of his own rascal handiwork about his neck.  Then shall justice be satisfied, and Malise MacKim will die happy.”

The Earl turned and looked at his ancient friend.  The wrinkles about the brow were deeply ironical now, and the grey eyes of the master armourer twinkled with appreciation of his jest.

“Malise,” cried his master, warningly, “do not play at cat’s cradle with the Douglas.  You might tempt me to that I should afterwards be sorry for.  A man once dead comes not to life again, whatever monks prate.  But tell me, how knew you whither I had gone yester-even?  For, indeed, I knew not myself when I set out.  And in any event, was it a thing well done for my foster father to spy upon me the son who was also his lord?”

The anger was mostly gone now out of the frank young face of the Earl, and only humiliation and resentment, with a touch of boyish curiosity, remained.

“Indeed,” answered the smith, “I watched you not save under my hand as you rode away upon Black Darnaway, and then I turned me to the seat by the wall to listen to the cavillings of Dame Barbara, the humming of the bees, and the other comfortable and composing sounds of nature.”

“How then did you come to follow me in the undesirable company of my uncle the Abbot?”

“For that you are in the debt of my son Sholto, who, seeing a lady wait for you in the greenwood, climbed a tree, and there from amongst the branches he was witness of your encounter.”

“So—­” said the Douglas, grimly, “it is to Master Sholto that I am indebted somewhat.”

“Aye,” said his father, “do not forget him.  For he is a good lad and a bold, as indeed he proved to the hilt yestreen.”

“In what consisted his boldness?” asked the Earl.

“In that he dared come home to me with a cock-and-bull story of a witch lady, who appeared suddenly where none had been a moment before, and who had immediately enchanted my lord Earl.  Well nigh did I twist his neck, but he stuck to it.  Then came riding by my lord Abbot on his way to Thrieve, and I judged that the matter, as one of witchcraft, was more his affair than mine.”

“Now hearken,” cried the Earl, in quick, high tones of anger, “let there be no more of such folly, or on your life be it.  The lady whom you insulted was travelling with her company through Galloway from France.  She invited me to sup with her, and dared me to adventure to Edinburgh in her company.  Answer me, wherein was the witchcraft of that, saving the witchery natural to all fair women?”