The intonation carried his meaning. MacLean, flushing deeply, rose from the table. “That is unworthy of you,” he said. “But since before to-night servants have rebuked masters, I spare not to tell you that you do most wrongly. ’Tis sad for the girl she died not in that wilderness where you found her.” “Ads my life!” cried Haward. “Leave my affairs alone!” Both men were upon their feet. “I took you for a gentleman,” said the Highlander, breathing hard. “I said to myself: ‘Duart is overseas where I cannot serve him. I will take this other for my chief’”-- “That is for a Highland cateran and traitor,” interrupted Haward, pleased to find another dart, but scarcely aware of how deadly an insult he was dealing. In a flash the blow was struck. Juba, in the next room, hearing the noise of the overturned table, appeared at the door. “Set the table to rights and light the candles again,” said his master calmly. “No, let the cards lie. Now begone to the quarters! ’Twas I that stumbled and overset the table.” Following the slave to the door he locked it upon him; then turned again to the room, and to MacLean standing waiting in the centre of it. “Under the circumstances, we may, I think, dispense with preliminaries. You will give me satisfaction here and now?” “Do you take it at my hands?” asked the other proudly. “Just now you reminded me that I was your servant. But find me a sword”-- Haward went to a carved chest; drew from it two rapiers, measured the blades, and laid one upon the table. MacLean took it up, and slowly passed the gleaming steel between his fingers. Presently he began to speak, in a low, controlled, monotonous voice: “Why did you not leave me as I was? Six months ago I was alone, quiet, dead. A star had set for me; as the lights fail behind Ben More, it was lost and gone. You, long hated, long looked for, came, and the star arose again. You touched my scars, and suddenly I esteemed them honorable. You called me friend, and I turned from my enmity and clasped your hand. Now my soul goes back to its realm of solitude and hate; now you are my foe again.” He broke off to bend the steel within his hands almost to the meeting of hilt and point. “A hated master,” he ended, with bitter mirth, “yet one that I must thank for grace extended. Forty stripes is, I believe, the proper penalty.” Haward, who had seated himself at his escritoire and was writing, turned his head. “For my reference to your imprisonment in Virginia I apologize. I demand the reparation due from one gentleman to another for the indignity of a blow. Pardon me for another moment, when I shall be at your service.”