Sir Hector turned to stare down into the fire, and when next he spoke, voice and manner were wholly changed. “Sir John ... John ... O Johnnie lad ... is it forget an’ forgi’e ye mean ... for auld lang syne? Can ye forgi’e so deadly an insult? Na—na, lad, bide a wee!... Mebbe I was o’er hasty wi’ ye ... mebbe I was no’ juist mysel’ ... mebbe—oh, my certie, I was a muckle fule.... So, John—Johnnie man, if——” “Why, Hector,” exclaimed Sir John, setting down the candle rather hastily, “’tis all forgotten long since, and ... and ... i’ faith, Hector, but your wig is most damnably askew! Stand still and let me straighten it for thee!” And so Sir John reached up and resettled Sir Hector’s peruke as he had been wont to do as a boy coaxing forgiveness for some fault, or as a youth soothing the anger of a none too stern guardian; and somehow Sir Hector’s great arm, as it had ever done on such occasions, crept about Sir John’s shoulders and rested there. “John,” quoth he, “I’m gettin’ auld ... and age, lad, is aye solitary.... We maun quarrel nae mair, Johnnie!” “Never again, Hector.” “Forbye, there’s nae wumman worth it—no, not one in a’ this warld, lad ... much less yon besom! An’ I gave ye the lie, John—you as ne’er leed tae me in a’ y’r days.... I tak’ it back—I withdraw it, John, every word, here and now. I did ye wrang, Johnnie, I did ye muckle wrang, an’ a’ by reason o’ yon feckless wench! I’m glad she ran awa’ ... though I’ll no deny I’ve been a wee lonesome o’ late! Ah well, come, lad, we’ll tak’ a glass an’ forget it—a wee drappie o’ Bunkle’s gumboo whilk is a concoction ye’ll no’ find in ony place but in Sussex, an’ worthy sic a sweet country. Ye’ll drink wi’ me, John?” “With all my heart, Hector! But pray remember that my name is still Derwent.” Sir Hector nodded and rapped gently on the panelling, at which summons one of the five doors opened and Mr. Bunkle reappeared, though from a totally opposite point of the compass; but scarcely had he, smiling and deft, fulfilled Sir Hector’s order and Sir John raised the fragrant beverage to his lips, than yet another door was softly unlatched and Robert the Imperturbable halted upon the threshold. “Sirs,” said he, favouring them with that movement that was neither salute nor bow and yet something of both, “think it proper to report sounds of distant musketry.” “Musketry, Robbie?” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Musketry, d’ye say?” “The same, sir!” “Did I no’ tell ye, Peter man, did I no’ tell ye? There’s murder afoot! And a’ by reason o’ that de’il Sayle, damn him!” Silently Mr. Bunkle led the way into his unlighted tap-room and, opening the wide lattice, they stood there in the dark, hearkening with straining ears; and presently, borne upon the wind from afar, came the faint report of firearms, four or five shots in rapid succession. “That’ll be ’twixt here an’ Exeat, I rackon,” quoth Mr. Bunkle.