om his mind, by the recreative and potent sleep of
youth and health.

In the hall he called for Sir John of Abernethy, nicknamed Landless
Jock.

"Conduct my uncle the Abbot from the chapel where he has been all
night at his devotions, to his chamber, and furnish him with what he
may require, and bring up Malise the Smith from the dungeon. Let him
come into my presence in the upper hall."

William Douglas went into a large oak-ceiled chamber, wide and high,
running across the castle from side to side, and with windows that
looked every way over the broad and fertile strath of Dee.

Presently, with a trampling of mailed feet and the double rattle which
denoted the grounding of a pair of steel-hilted partisans, Malise was
brought to the door by two soldiers of the Earl's outer guard.

The huge bulk of Brawny Kim filled up the doorway almost completely,
and he stood watching the Douglas with an unmoved gravity which, in
the dry wrinkles about his eyes, almost amounted to humorous
appreciation of the situation.

Yet it was Malise who spoke first. For at his appearance the Earl had
turned his back upon his retainer, and now stood at the window that
looks towards the north, from which he could see, over the broad and
placid stretches of the river, the men putting up the pavilions and
striking spears into the ground to mark out the spaces for the tourney
of the next day.

"A fair good morrow to you, my lord," said the smith. "Grievous as my
sin has been, and just as is your resentment, give me leave to say
that I have suffered more than my deserts from the ill-made chains and
uncouth manacles wherewith they confined me in the black dungeon down
there. I trow they must have been the workmanship of Ninian Lamont the
Highlandman, who dares to call himself house-smith of Thrieve. I am
ready to die if it be your will, my lord; but if you are well advised
you will hang Ninian beside me with a bracelet of his own rascal
handiwork about his neck. Then shall justice be satisfied, and Malise
MacKim will die happy."

The Earl turned and looked at his ancient friend. The wrinkles about
the brow were deeply ironical now, and the grey eyes of the master
armourer twinkled with appreciation of his jest.

"Malise," cried his master, warningly, "do not play at cat's cradle
with the Douglas. You might tempt me to that I should afterwards be
sorry for. A man once dead comes not to life again, whatever monks
prate. But tell me, how knew