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I will be glad to see any one in the town of Perth persecute one who hath taken hold of MacIan's mantle!" "It may not be safe to trust too much to that," said Catharine. "I nothing doubt the power of your tribe; but when the Black Douglas takes up a feud, he is not to be scared by the shaking of a Highland plaid." The Highlander disguised his displeasure at this speech with a forced laugh.
He was not, as a rule, a man much acquainted with moods; and the storms and sunbursts of MacIan's soul passed before him as an impressive but unmeaning panorama, like the anarchy of Highland scenery. Turnbull was one of those men in whom a continuous appetite and industry of the intellect leave the emotions very simple and steady.
He wavered as he came down the slope and seemed flinging himself into peculiar postures. But it was only when he came within three feet of MacIan's face, that that observer of mankind fully realized that Mr. James Turnbull was roaring with laughter. "You are quit right," sobbed that wholly demoralized journalist. "He's black, oh, there's no doubt the black's all right as far as it goes."
And it was broken by three heavy blows of a stick delivered upon the door. Turnbull looked up in the act of opening a tin and stared silently at his companion. MacIan's long, lean mouth had shut hard. "Who the devil can that be?" said Turnbull. "God knows," said the other. "It might be God." Again the sound of the wooden stick reverberated on the wooden door.
Think ye the captain of the Clan Quhele will be brawling and battling with a bit Perth burgess body like you? Whisht, man, and hearken. Her nainsell will do ye mair credit than ever belonged to your kin. She will fight you for the fair harness hersell." "She must first show that she is my match," said Henry, with a grim smile. "How! I, one of Eachin MacIan's leichtach, and not your match!"
Working men who drank the health of a duellist were imprisoned for drunkenness. But the popular excitement about the alleged duel continued, and we had to fall back on our old historical method. We investigated, on scientific principles, the story of MacIan's challenge, and we are happy to be able to inform you that the whole story of the attempted duel is a fable. There never was any challenge.
But in MacIan's soul more formless storms were gathering, and he made a lunge or two so savage as first to surprise and then to enrage his opponent. Turnbull ground his teeth, kept his temper, and waiting for the third lunge, and the worst, had almost spitted the lunger when a shrill, small cry came from behind him, a cry such as is not made by any of the beasts that perish.
Then as he led the heavy, silk-hatted man back towards the group, he caught MacIan's ear in order to whisper: "This poor gentleman is mad; he thinks he is Edward VII." At this the self-appointed Creator slightly winked. "Of course you won't trust him much; come to me for everything. But in my position one has to meet so many people. One has to be broadminded."
At whatever stage of being burned alive the invisible now found himself, he was now shaking out peals of silvery and hilarious laughter. As he listened, MacIan's two eyes began to glow, as if a strange thought had come into his head. "Fool, come out and save yourself!" shouted Turnbull. "No, by Heaven! that is not the way," cried Evan, suddenly. "Father," he shouted, "come out and save us all!"
It was a curious sound and on consideration did not resemble the ordinary effects of knocking on a door for admittance. It was rather as if the point of a stick were plunged again and again at the panels in an absurd attempt to make a hole in them. A wild look sprang into MacIan's eyes and he got up half stupidly, with a kind of stagger, put his hand out and caught one of the swords.
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