I suppose he must, in the midst of his fury, have got just a glisk of the true thing before him--not a worthy and fair opponent for a man of his own years, but an old wearied man of peace, with a flabby neck, and his countenance blotched, and his wig ajee upon his head so that it showed the bald pate below, for he came to himself as it were with a start. Then he was ashamed most bitterly. He hung his head and scraped with an unconscious foot upon the floor. The minister recovered his wind, looked with contempt in every line at the man who had abused him, and sat down without a word before the fire. “I’m sorry about this,” said M’Iver, fumbling about his waist-belt with nervous ringers; “I’m sorry about this, Master Gordon. A Highlander cannot be aye keeping God’s gift of a temper in leash, and yet it’s my disgrace to have laid a hand on a gentleman of your age and calling, even for the name of my chief. Will you credit me when I say I was blind to my own act? Something in me rose uncontrollable, and had you been Hector in armour, or my grandfather from the grave, I was at your neck.” “Say no more about it,” answered Gordon. “I have seen the wolf so often at the Highlander’s heart that I need not be wondering to find him snarling and clawing now. And still--from a gentleman--and a person of travel----” “Say away, sir,” said M’Iver, bitterly; “you have the whole plea with you this time, and I’m a rogue of the blackest I can say no more than I’m sorry for a most dirty action.” Gordon looked at him, and seemed convinced that here was a genuine remorse; at least his mien softened and he said quietly, “You’ll hear no more of it from me.” We were standing, M’Iver and I, in front of the hearth, warming to the peat glow, and the cleric sat in an oak arm-chair. Out in the vacant night the rain still pattered and the gale cried. And all at once, above the sound of wind and water, there came a wild rapping at the main door of the house, the alarum of a very crouse and angry traveller finding a hostel barred against him at unseasonable hours. A whole childhood of fairy tale rose to my mind in a second; but the plain truth followed with more conviction, that likely here was no witch, warlock, nor fairy, but some one with a better right to the tenancy of Dal-ness than seven broken men with nor let nor tack. We were speedily together, the seven of us, and gathered in the hall, and listening with mouths open and hearts dunting, to the rapping that had no sign of ceasing.