He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the while M'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he could control himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forward with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: “Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo daur ye stan' there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit doon, I say, or”--threateningly--“wad ye hae me come to ye?” At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's grim face relaxed. But the squire's voice rang out sharp and stern. “Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M'Adam! D'you hear me, sir? If I have to speak to you again it will be to order you to leave the room.” The little man obeyed, sullen and vengeful, like a beaten cat. The Master concluded his speech by calling on all present to give three cheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies. The call was responded to enthusiastically, every man standing. Just as the noise was at its zenith, Lady Eleanour herself, with her two fair daughters, glided into the gallery at the end of the hall; whereat the cheering became deafening. Slowly the clamor subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At length there was left standing only one solitary figure--M 'Adam. His face was set, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin, nervous hands. “Mr. Sylvester,” he began in low yet clear voice, “ye said this is a free country and we're a' free men. And that bein' so, I'll tak' the liberty, wi' yer permission, to say a word. It's maybe the last time I'll be wi' ye, so I hope ye'll listen to me.” The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the squire uneasy. Nevertheless he nodded assent. The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though strung up to a high resolve. All the passion had fled from it, all the bitterness was gone; and left behind was a strange, enobling earnestness. Standing there in the silence of that great hall, with every eye upon him, he looked like some prisoner at the bar about to plead for his life. “Gentlemen,” he began, “I've bin amang ye noo a score years, and I can truly say there's not a man in this room I can ca' 'Friend.'” He looked along the ranks of upturned faces. “Ay, David, I see ye, and you, Mr. Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester--ilka one o' you, and not one as'd back me like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me.” There was no rebuke in the grave little voice--it merely stated a hard fact. “There's I doot no one amang ye but has some one--friend or blood--wham he can turn to when things are sair wi' him. I've no one. “'I bear alane my lade o' care'--alane wi' Wullie, who stands to me, blaw or snaw, rain or shine. And whiles I'm feared he'll be took from me.” He spoke this last half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expression on his face, as though lately he had dreamed some ill dream.