“From boot to bonnet,” said Gordon, in no whit abashed by the irony. “Man, do you know,” he went on, “there’s a time comes to me now when by the grace of God I can see to one’s innermost as through a lozen. I shudder, sometimes, at the gift. For there’s the fair face, and there’s the smug and smiling lip, and there’s the flattery at the tongue, and below that masked front is Beelzebub himself, meaning well sometimes--perhaps always--but by his fall a traitor first and last.” “God!” cried M’Iver, with a very ugly face, “that sounds awkwardly like a roundabout way of giving me a bad character.” “I said, sir,” answered Gordon, “that poor Beelzebub does not sometimes ken his own trade. I have no doubt that in your heart you are touched to the finest by love of your fellows.” “And that’s the truth--when they are not clerics,” cried John. “Touched to the finest, and set in a glow too, by a manly and unselfish act, and eager to go through this world on pleasant footings with yourself and all else.” “Come, come,” I cried; “I know my friend well, Master Gordon. We are not all that we might be; but I’m grateful for the luck that brought me so good a friend as John M’Iver.” “I never cried down his credit,” said the minister, simply. “Your age gives you full liberty,” said John. “I would never lift a hand.” “The lifting of your hand,” said the cleric with a flashing eye, “is the last issue I would take thought of. I can hold my own. You are a fair and shining vessel (of a kind), but Beelzebub’s at your heart. They tell me that people like you; this gentleman of Elrigmore claims you for his comrade. Well, well, so let it be! It but shows anew the charm of the glittering exterior: they like you for your weaknesses and not for your strength. Do you know anything of what they call duty?” “I have starved to the bone in Laaland without complaint, stood six weeks on watch in Stralsund’s Franken gate, eating my meals at my post, and John M’Iver never turned skirts on an enemy.” “Very good, sir, very good,” said the minister; “but duty is most ill to do when it is to be done in love and not in hate.” “Damn all schooling!” cried John. “You’re off in the depths of it again, and I cannot be after you. Duty is duty in love or hate, is it not?” “It would take two or three sessions of St Andrews to show you that it makes a great differ whether it is done in love or hate. You do your duty by your enemy well enough, no doubt,--a barbarian of the blackest will do no less,--but it takes the better man to do his duty sternly by those he loves and by himself above all Argile----” “Yes,” cried I, “what about Argile?” The minister paid no heed to my question. “Argile,” said he, “has been far too long flattered by you and your like, M’Iver.” “Barbreck,” put in my comrade.