Again there was a slight pause; the venerable Makian’s face assumed a still more amiable expression, but he appeared a little at a loss for an answer; the sons exchanged fierce glances. Breadalbane, still fondling his sword-hilt, spoke slowly. “The market value of the coos is twa pund English apiece.” At this one of the young Macdonalds broke out: “Ye play the fule, Jock Campbell! We hav’na’ come to prate of coos—but of the oaths to King Wullie.” Breadalbane looked at him calmly. “So you’re thinking of taking the oaths? Weel, I’m no’ a sheriff.” Makian interposed: “We will gang to the sheriff, Jock Campbell, but there was talk of siller for those taking the oaths and I’d no’ be adverse to my ain share.” “Weel?” said Breadalbane mildly. “We’ll no’ be asking a muckle,” said Makian generously. “King Jamie couldna’ do more for us than fine words and a siller bawbee apiece—gie us twa hundred of King Wullie’s money and we’ll be taking the oaths.” “I take your meaning, Macdonald,” answered Breadalbane. “The twa hundred pund would just pay for the coos—well, I’ll keep it and then you’ll be still owing me the rent.” Makian was silent, recognizing a master-stroke of cunning; Ronald had little Lowland speech and could only frown angrily; but Ian, his elder, made a step toward Breadalbane: “We owe ye neither money nor friendship, Jock Campbell,” he cried fiercely, “we come to ye because ye stand for the government—we’ll no’ be considering what there is between us here and noo.” Breadalbane lifted his head with a little laugh. “Keep back,” he said. “Dinna forget that I’m no’ ane of your Hieland thieves, but Campbell o’ Glenorchy and Breadalbane! Keep back, I say! Do ye ken that in Edinburgh the lifting of my finger would hang ye before the Tolbooth?” His eyes shone with a steady contained hate, and fire flashed in Ian Macdonald’s gaze to meet it. “Na doot ye could lee awa’ a mon’s life in Edinburgh, Jock Campbell,” he answered, “but noo we stand on our ain ground.” “Ye stand in Kilchurn Castle!” cried the Earl. “Dinna forget that, Macdonald!” A passionate reply was on Ian’s lips, but the old chief interposed: “Ay, we stand in your ain castle, Jock Campbell, because we treat ye as the government’s representative—in your public capacity, ye ken. I’ll no’ be saying it’s greatly to our liking to treat with a Campbell, but I will be saying it’ll no’ be greatly to your credit to be remembering ye are a Campbell.” Breadalbane’s hand clutched tightly round his sword-hilt; he struggled to maintain his wonted dignity of demeanor. “Take the oaths an’ ye will, Macdonald,” he said. “But dinna think ye’ll get ony siller frae me—not a bawbee. Ye owe me in money and kind mony times your share o’ the English siller.” Makian drew himself up with stately gravity. “Ye are wrong,” he said. “’Tis not in your right to withhold the money.” “’Tis in my power,” flashed Breadalbane. Ian answered fiercely: