Then Sir John closed his lattice, and, taking up the candle, stood awhile lost in thought; finally he stepped from his chamber, closing the door behind him, and descended the stair, to find himself in a crooked passage full of dim nooks, odd corners and unexpected levels. Presently, guided by a murmur of voices, he espied a small door coyly hidden in most unlikely corner, and, lifting the latch, beheld a small, strangely shaped apartment further remarkable in that it possessed two windows and five doors; and here, in an elbow-chair before a smouldering fire, lolled the gigantic form of Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean. His riding-coat was dusty like his long, booted legs outstretched upon the hearth, his unkempt periwig excessively askew; in one hand he held his cherished clay pipe, in the other a steaming glass that gave forth a delectable fragrance, while Mr. Bunkle busied himself at the table with a bowl and ladle. At the sudden opening of the door, both men glanced up, and Sir Hector rose hastily. “John!” he exclaimed. Sir John bowed in his stateliest fashion, and so they confronted each other, Sir Hector flushed of cheek and frowning a little as one at a loss; Mr. Bunkle, suspending his operations, looked from one to the other and, with instinctive delicacy, opened the nearest of the five doors and incontinently vanished. Sir Hector set down his glass and drew himself to his extremest height, so that the curls of his peruke brushed the carven beam above. “Sir John Dering!” Sir John’s bow was entirely formal, whereupon Sir Hector puffed furiously at his pipe, but, finding it was out, laid it very carefully beside his glass and scowled blacker than ever. “Sir John,” quoth he in his most precise English, “on the last occasion we had speech I felt constrained to tell you that you—lied!” “Alas, yes!” sighed Sir John. “And I named you liar because circumstances and your very evil reputation seemed more than to warrant it.” “Perchance they did, sir,” murmured Sir John. “Under the which circumstances, I was bound to draw upon you,” continued Sir Hector ponderously, “and you, sir, refused to fight, and stomached the insult. Well, sir, are you suffering from an indigestion? Have you thought better of your refusal?” “I have!” answered Sir John. “Better and better.” “Why, then, sir,” answered Sir Hector, reaching for his long Andrea Ferrara from adjacent corner, “there will be plenty of space for us in the tap-room——” “But your arm, sir?” demurred Sir John. “Tush—’tis well! Besides,’twas my left. But where is your sword?” “Upstairs, sir, where it will surely remain,” answered Sir John, and smiled. And, meeting this smile, Sir Hector loosed his great weapon very suddenly, much as if it had burned his fingers. “Johnnie—Sir John,” he stammered, “what d’ye mean? Why are you here?” “Surely, Hector, oh, surely you can guess—you that were my father’s comrade and my best friend?”