rland the Old, "who pays not
homage to our rightful lord and sovereign the good King Hakon."

"I owe no sort of fealty to Norway," said Hamish. "Nor do I know by what
right Hakon claims sovereignty over any one of the isles south of Iona."

"Methinks," said Sweyn the Silent, looking up under his dark brows,
"that Harald Fairhair settled that matter a good four hundred years ago."

"Right well am I aware that at such time Harald did indeed conquer the
Western Isles -- ay, even to Bute and Arran" -- returned Earl Hamish.
"But methinks, my lord of Colonsay, that my own ancestor the great king
Somerled (God rest him!) did at least wrest the isles of Bute, Arran,
and Gigha from the power of Norway. Those three island kingdoms do to
this day owe truage to no overlord saving only the King of Scots, and to
Alexander alone will I pay homage."

At that Earl Roderic's eyes found their way to the shelf that was above
the hearth, and his two friends, following his glance, saw the knife
upon the shelf and smiled. From the halls below, where the guards and
servitors were feasting, came the strains of the minstrel's harp and a
henchman's joyous song of triumphant battle.

"'Tis then no marvel," said Roderic, "that the young King of Scots, like
his father before him, has made of you a willing cat's-paw. On what
fool's errand went you to Norway?"

"That," said the lord of Bute, "is quickly told;" and he looked round
for a moment, observing that all the lamps save one had burned out their
feeble lights. "I went to Norway, bearing letters to King Hakon from the
King of Scots and his majesty of England, King Henry the Third."

"His majesty of England!" exclaimed all three.

"Henry of England is no more a friend to the Norseman than is
Alexander," said Hamish, as he pressed down the burning logs with his
foot. "And I do assure you, my lords, that both are well prepared to
resist the incursions of King Hakon's vassals."

"And what manner of princely reward got you for your trouble as letter
bearer?" asked Roderic in a tone of injured envy.

"Ten score head of Highland cattle, I would guess," muttered Erland the Old.

"Nay, twenty score, rather," chimed in Sweyn the Silent.

"Methinks, brother Hamish," said Roderic hoarsely, as he stepped nearer
to him and looked with an evil scowl into his face -- "methinks it had
been your part to have sent me word, that I might also have been of that
journey. It had been but reason that I had th