As thus it was.  The young Earl would come in his inspection to a company of Solway-side men—­stiff-jointed fishers of salmon nets out of the parishes of Rerrick or Borgue—­or, as it might be, rough colts from the rock scarps of Colvend, scramblers after wild birds’ nests on perilous heuchs, and poachers on the deer preserves of Cloak Moss, as often as they had a chance.  Then the Earl, having zealously commended the particular Barnbacle or Munches who led them, all would be peace and concord, till out of the crowd behind would issue the growling comment of his uncle, the Abbot of Dulce Cor.

“A close-fisted old thief!  The saints pity him not!  He will surely fry in Hell!  Last Shrovetide did he not drive off five of our best milch cows, and hath steadfastly refused to restore them? Anathema maranatha to his vile body and condemned be his huckstering soul!”

Needless to add, every word of this comment and addition was heard by the person most concerned.

Or it might be, “Henry A’milligan—­his mother’s son, God wot.  And his father’s, too, doubtless—­if only one could know who his father was.  The devil dwell in his fat belly! Exorciso te—­”

So it went on till the temper of the young lord of Galloway was strained almost to the breaking point, for he wished not to cause a disturbance among so great a company and on a day of such renown.

At last they came to the muster of the clean-run limber lads of Kelton, artificers mostly, and stated retainers of the castle and its various adjacent bourgs of Carlinwark, Rhonehouse, Gelston, and Mains of Thrieve.

Some one at this point took the Abbot by the elbow and shouted in his ear that this was the company he desired to see.  Then he rode forward to the left hand of his nephew, as Malise and he passed slowly down the line examining the weapons.

“Laurence MacKim, I would see Laurence MacKim!” cried the Abbot, holding up his hand as if in the chapel of his monastery.  The Earl stopped, and Malise turned right about on his heel in great astonishment.

“What wants old marrowbones with our Laurie?” he muttered; “surely he cannot have gotten into mischief with the lasses already.  But I kenna—­I kenna.  When I was sixteen I can mind—­I can mind.  And the loon may well be his father’s own son.”

And Malise, the man of brawn, watched out of his quiet grey eyes the face of the Abbot William, wondering what was to come next.

Laurence stood forth at a word of command from the Earl.  He saluted, and then dropped the point of his sword meekly upon the ground.  His white-and-rose cherub’s face expressed the utmost goodness and innocence.