Rupert, supping with them, noted less the Prince’s great air of ease--he was accustomed to it long ago--than the punctilious and minute regard he showed to Miss MacDonald. Whenever she moved to leave the room--intent on seeing to the dishes in the kitchen--he rose and bowed her out. When she returned, he rose, and would not be seated till she had taken her place again. “You’ll turn poor Flora’s head, your Highness,” said Mrs. MacDonald once, after Flora had gone out, some shrewd maternal instinct warring with her loyalty. “The head that guided me from Uist to Skye, and to your hospitality, would not be lightly turned. I _choose_ to honour your daughter, Mrs. MacDonald, by your leave.” “But, your Highness, she’s only a daft slip of a girl. I weaned and reared her, and should know.” “You did not cross with us from Uist. And afterwards there were the days and nights in Skye, the rains, and the patient watching; madam, as God sees us, Miss Flora carries the bravest soul in Scotland. I cannot do her too much honour.” Kingsborough, big and simple-hearted--his wife, thrifty and not prone to sentiment--looked at their guest with frank astonishment. He had been so gay, so debonair, until a chance word had touched the depths in him. How could they understand him? They had not been through the glamour and wild seas, as he had been since Miss MacDonald came to serve him. They did not know the clean, quick love that had lain here in wait for him among the Western Isles. Flora came in again, carrying a dish of hot scones. She was aware of some new gravity that had settled on the company, and her glance sought the Prince’s with instinctive question. “Yes,” he said, “I was praising Miss MacDonald in her absence. You must forgive me.” Late that night, when he and Rupert were alone with their host, the Prince fell into a mood of reckless gaiety. For a while his journeyings were ended. He had supped royally; he was to enjoy the luxury of a mattress and clean sheets, after many nights spent in the heather or in wave-swept boats; and the sheer physical comfort of it was strangely pleasant. He was a good companion, with a story here, a jest there, that set big Kingsborough laughing till he feared to wake the goodwife up above. He taught the laird the true way of mixing whisky-punch. He would not be cajoled to bed, because the respite of this sitting beside a warm hearth, with friends beside him and Miss MacDonald somewhere in the house, was more than food and drink to him. “We must make an early start to-morrow,” said Kingsborough, when at last his guest rose. “It is imperative, your Highness.” “No, friend,” said the other, with pleasant unconcern. “To-night I sleep--I tell you, I must sleep. The most willing horse, Mr. MacDonald, has need of the stable in between-whiles.”