“Ha, d’ye think so? Well, I ask ye whaur’s the lass?” “And I answer that I do not know.” “John, is it the truth ye’re tellin’ me?” Sir John laid down his pen and stared. “Well, can ye no’ speak? Whaur is she? What hae ye done wi’ her?” “Hector,” answered Sir John softly, “I am not in the habit of lying, nor of permitting my word to be doubted by any man——” “Aye, but I’m no’ juist ‘ony man’—I’m Hector Lauchlan MacLean o’ Duart! Aye, an’ I mind o’er weel y’r damnable reputation!” “My reputation again—aye, to be sure!” murmured Sir John. “My reputation discredits me still, it seems—even with you!” “An’ why for no’? I’ve seen much o’ life—plenty evil an’ little good! I’ve kenned men honourably born like ye’sel’ as hae lied—aye, tae their best frien’, an’ a’ tae come at a wumman!” “And you believe that I am lying?” “Aye, I dae that!” cried Sir Hector in sudden fury, clapping hand to sword. Sir John rose. “So you—you give me the lie?” he demanded, grim-lipped. “In y’r teeth, sir—in y’r teeth!” cried Sir Hector. “I believe that ye’ve stolen the puir innocent lass awa’ for y’r ain base purposes!” And now, despite wounded arm, out flashed his ponderous blade, and with point advanced he stepped forward fierce and threatening; and so steel met steel. Then Sir John let fall his sword. “My father’s friend and comrade ... God forbid!” quoth he. “Sir Hector, if you judge me rogue so vile—strike, man, and have done!” For a long moment Sir Hector stood irresolute, his great sword quivering in fierce-griping hand. “Ye winna fecht?” he questioned hoarsely at last. “Never with you, Hector.” “An’ ye tell me ye’ve no’ hidden the lassie?” “I have not!” “An’ that you’ve no’ driven her awa’ wi’ y’r shameful offers?” “Most certainly not!” “An’ ye’ve had naething whateffer tae dae wi’ her disappearance?” “Nothing!” “Then—the guid God forgi’e ye—read that, an’ ken ye’sel’ for the false leear y’ are!” So saying, Sir Hector slapped down an open letter on the table, which, after a momentary hesitation, Sir John took up; and read as follows: “_To the nobel and generous Sir Hector._ “HONORED SUR,—The memry of your extream and unselfish kindnes will remane ever sweet to pore me that must leve you awhile, perchance to return. If not arsk Sir John Dering the reason he may gess being so clever and perchance explane all things wherefore and why, Sir, I am your honor’s grateful “ROSE. “Are all wicked men so clever as wicked Sir John Dering I wonder.” “An’ now will ye fecht?” cried Sir Hector. “No!” answered Sir John, flicking the letter to the floor. “Never with you, Hector!” “Why, then—I’m done wi’ ye!” roared Sir Hector, and, turning his back, stamped from the room, closing the door after him with a reverberating bang.