“Though King William made you a knight and a General, Sir Hector!” “Och aye ... but best of a’—I was y’r father’s friend, his comrade an’ brither-in-arms in camp an’ field, y’ ken!” Sir Hector was silent a moment; when next he spoke, his English was more precise than usual. “When your noble father died, John, he left you and your mother to my care.... So soon as the wars were over I hasted to take up this sacred charge and found your mother dying ... but you were alive enough—a bonnie, braw, wee thing.... And since then, John, since then——” “You have been everything to me, Hector—my only true friend!” “God knoweth I have tried to be faithful to the trust, to keep my word to your father and do my duty by his son——” “And, sir, indeed you have!” “Ah, but have I, John—have I so, indeed? Have I trained you up to be the honourable gentleman your father would have been proud of calling son? Have I, lad—have I?” “I trust so, sir.” “And yet, John—and yet——” Sir Hector rose, his grim lips twitching strangely, and began to pace the floor in sudden agitation. Now, as he turned, it chanced that the scabbard of his long, broad-bladed Andrea Ferrara swept a dainty Sèvres ornament to the floor, whereupon he halted to stare down at the fragments with eyes of horrified dismay. “Forgi’e me, John, forgi’e me!” he exclaimed, unheeding Sir John’s reassurances; “but ye see, lad, a’m no juist the man tae be trusted amang sic dainty trifles as yon. Look at it—shivered beyond repair ... ’tis like a man’s honour! An’ talking of honour, John, your father was a noble gentleman, proud of his honourable name, who kept that name unsullied all his days.... Have you done as much, John? O lad, you that are my dead friend’s son, you that I have bred from your youth up—have you done as much?” “Do you doubt it, Hector?” “Aye, I do, John. God help me, I must—unless report lies.” Sir John’s pale cheek flushed, his sensitive nostrils quivered, but his air and tone were placid as usual when he spoke: “To what do you refer, Hector?” “To your wild doings and devilments, John, your godless life and riotous wickedness, your hell-fire and damnable practices generally——” “Sit down, Hector. Pray sit down and fetch your breath,” smiled Sir John. “Egad, you’re so full o’ news concerning me that ’tis plain you have met some friend o’ mine of late——” “Look’ee, John, scarce have I set foot in Parus than I hear some scurrilous tale o’ yourself and some Marquise or other——” “Ah, the Marquise?” sighed Sir John, turning to glance at his unfinished composition. “I was inditing an ode to her, but my muse halted for an apt rhyme to ‘soul,’ Hector.” “’Twas a curst discreditable affair as I heard it, John!”