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Updated: June 17, 2025
It was the knob of the parlour door she turned after a tap. Then she went in. "Why, you tall, charming, baby-faced ! Celeste, Celeste, here's your baby! Come here to me, Malise. Why the child's hands are cold!" How foolish to have dreaded it so! It was all gone even the constraint. The twelve years were as nothing. She was again the baby child, Malise, so-called by her mother's people.
"Shall I clout them now?" rumbled Malise the second time, with an anxious desire in his voice. "Bide a wee yet," whispered the Lord James; "we will try the soft answer once more, and if that fail, why then, old Samson, you may clout your fill." "His fill!" corrected Malise, grimly.
I'm better, really, much better, only while he was talking about, about things it's a dreadful religion his; I'd rather be without any, like Jean, than have one like his I remembered how Father Bonot used to pull the oranges for me I couldn't reach. Here's Malise come back. Malise, let's not go to The Bay after all; I'm tired; let's go to Cannes Brulée.
"Down on your knees!" cried the leader of the young roisterers, and with his left hand he thrust a blazing torch into the grey beard of Malise. There was a quick snort of anger. Then, with a burst of relief and pleasure, came the words, "By God, I'll clout him now!"
Lord James would have spoken. "Hush!" said Malise, yet more solemnly. And far off, like an echo from another world, thin and sweet and silver clear, a cock crew. The blue leaping flame of the wild-fire abruptly ceased. The dawn arose red and broad in the east.
Abreast they reined their horses in the quadrangle, and in a moment Sholto had recognised in the rider his brother Laurence, pale as death, and the figure that had clung to the stirrup as the horse took the water, was his father, Malise MacKim. Thus in one moment came the three MacKims to the door-step of Thrieve.
"Help me to loosen his gorget and ease him of his body mail," said Malise, at last. "He has gotten a bite or two, but nothing that appears serious. I think he has but fainted from pressure." Sholto bent down and with his dagger cut string by string the stout leathern twists which secured the knight's mail.
Malise Kim, who by the common voice was well named "The Brawny," sat in his wicker chair before his door, overlooking the island-studded, fairy-like loch of Carlinwark. In the smithy across the green bare-trodden road, two of his elder sons were still hammering at some armour of choice.
They could hear the ring of iron on stones and the panting of men engaged in severe toil. "The marshal is preparing for flight," whispered the Duke, exultantly. "He is interring his treasures. He has been warned. But we will be overspeedy for him." And he chuckled in his satisfaction so loudly that Malise, using no ceremony with Duke or varlet at such a season, put his hand over his mouth.
Whereupon, Sholto holding the ladder at the top, Duke John and his Councillor mounted like shadows, and with Malise and James Douglas to guard them they were presently crouched in the passage with the door shut behind them, and the officers keeping watch at the foot of the tower without. These five listened to the sounds of busy picks within the tower.
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