“Then Lochiel,” went on Sir Jasper buoyantly--“is he, too, old and out of date? Lochiel--you know how the very name of him sings music to the Highlanders. Lochiel--dear God! the tears are in my eyes; he’s so like the free open moors I’ve left behind me.” Murray’s thin lips came together. It was plain now where the weakness lay in a face that otherwise was strong and manly. The mouth was that of a nagging woman querulous, undisciplined, lined with bygone sneers. He was jealous of the Prince--jealous of this fine, upstanding squire who spoke his mind with disconcerting openness; but, most of all, he was jealous of Lochiel--Lochiel, the whisper of whose name set fire to loyal Highlandmen; Lochiel, who was gay and courtly and a pleasant comrade; Lochiel, who was hard as granite when men touched his inner faith; he was all that Lord Murray hated, all that Murray wished to be, and could not be. “Sir Jasper, you’ve been plain of speech,” he said, with sudden fury. “Our quarrel need not be delayed. I ask Mr. Johnstone here if I can wait to give you satisfaction--until”--again the smile that was a sneer--“until after we are all beheaded on Tower Hill.” Sir Jasper glanced up and down the road. They had it to themselves, though at any moment a company might ride into view along the straggling route. It was a grave breach of discipline, this duel in the midst of warfare; and yet, somehow, he found it welcome. He turned to the aide-de-camp, glanced quietly at him. “Mr. Johnstone,” he said, “you cannot be friendly to Lord Murray and myself--it’s too wide a gulf for young legs to jump--but I can trust you, by the look of you, to see fair play between us. I have no friend at hand, and it happens that this business must be settled quickly.” They rode apart from the route, into a little wood where sycamores and oaks were bending to the keen, whipping gale. They found an open space, and got from horse, and took off their coats. To Lord Murray, a good swordsman, it was a chance to put out of action one who, in breed and temper, was too near akin to the Stuart and Lochiel. To Sir Jasper it was a call, clear, unhurried, to remove a traitor from the midst of honest men. They faced each other in the little glade. Murray was mathematical, exact, secure in his gift of fence. Sir Jasper was as God made him--not reckoning up the odds, but trusting that honesty would win the day. Young Johnstone watched; and, despite himself, his heart ached for the older man who pitted Lancashire swordcraft against Murray’s practised steel. The fight was quick and brief; and the unexpected happened, as it had done throughout this march of faith against surprising odds. Sir Jasper was not fighting for his own hand, but for the Prince’s; and his gift of fence--to himself, who knew how time had rusted his old bones--was a thing magical, as if a score of years or so had been lifted from his shoulders.