ugh he were fathoming them severally with
some infallible mental gauge, by which he could calculate their measure
of capacity to a hair.

Costly wines were on the table. Silver and cut glass of Venice sparkled
on spotless cloth. Silent-sandalled lay brethren of the Order waited on
the Prior and his guests. Course after course was brought in, discussed,
and removed. The Abbot, Don Baltasar Varela, himself ate little. He
watched his guests' appetites, however, with manifest interest, and
directed the servitors with almost imperceptible movements of his hand.
He appeared to favour each one of the three equally.

Yet an observer as detached as Don Baltasar himself would have detected
that the chief part of his attention was given to the young man, Rollo
Blair, and that the Prior, with a gently subtle smile, kept murmuring to
himself at each quick retort and flash of repartee.

"'Fiery as a Scot' indeed! A true proverb! This fellow is the man we
want, if so we can pay his price. The others----"

And Don Baltasar shrugged his shoulders slightly and contemptuously, as
he glanced from the broad stolid features of John Mortimer of Chorley to
the bright volatile countenance of his nephew Etienne, Count of Saint
Pierre--though, as we know, in so doing he did much injustice to two men
very brave after their kind, albeit their kind was not that for which
the Prior of Montblanch happened to be presently on the outlook.

Rollo never emptied his glass (and he did so frequently) but one of
Abbot Baltasar's eyelids quivered, and the glass was immediately filled
again.

Thus supplied with inspiration the stream of the youth's conversation
flowed steadily. His tones rose till they dominated the table. His
vocabulary expanded, and as he had learned his Castilian in strange
places, his occasional freedom of expression bore somewhat heavily upon
the lay brothers, who, fearful of the watchful grey eye of their
superior, dared not so much as to smile behind their hands.

As Rollo's tongue loosened and his heart enlarged, the Prior with a
twitch of his thumb indicated that the doors were to be closed, and
turned again to give yet graver and more courteous attention to the
conversation of his guest.

Master Blair's muse was the historical--and, alas! the autobiographical.

"Through his sword-arm I sent Killiecrankie, which is a better blade
than any ever forged at Toledo--as I, Rollo Blair, stand ready to affirm
and make good upon any m