twice, then folded them across his breast, making no motion however
to remove his plumed bonnet, although every one else in the room
except himself and his men were uncovered.

"You have come in from the country," began the king, a suspicion of a
smile hovering about his lips, "to enjoy the metropolitan delights of
Stirling. How are you satisfied with your reception?"

The big Highlandman made no reply, but frowned heavily, and bestowed a
savage glance on several of the courtiers, among whom a light ripple
of laughter had run after the king put his question.

"These savages," suggested Sir Donald, "do not understand anything but
the Gaelic. Is it your majesty's pleasure that the interpreter be
called?"

"Yes, bring him in."

When the interpreter arrived, the king said,--

"Ask this man if his action is the forefront of a Highland invasion of
the Lowlands, or merely a little private attempt on his own part to
take the castle by assault?"

The interpreter put the question in Gaelic, and was answered with
gruff brevity by the marauder. The interpreter, bowing low to the
king, said smoothly,--

"This man humbly begs to inform your majesty--"

"Speak truth, MacPherson!" cautioned the king. "Translate faithfully
exactly what he says. Our friend here, by the look of him, does not
do anything humbly, or fawn or beg. Translate accurately. What does he
say?"

The polite MacPherson was taken aback by this reproof, but answered,--

"He says, your majesty, he will hold no communication with me, because
I am of an inferior clan, which is untrue. The MacPhersons were a
civilised clan centuries ago, which the MacNabs are not to this day,
so please your majesty."

The MacNab's hand darted to his left side, but finding no sword to his
grasp, it fell away again.

"You are a liar!" cried the chief in very passable English which was
not to be misunderstood. "The MacPhersons are no clan, but an
insignificant branch of the Chattan. 'Touch not the Cat' is your
motto, and a good one, for a MacPherson can scratch but he cannot
handle the broadsword."

MacPherson drew himself up, his face reddening with anger. His hand
also sought instinctively the hilt of his sword, but the presence in
which he stood restricted him.

"It is quite safe," he said with something like the spit of a cat,
"for a heathen to insult a Christian in the presence of his king, and
the MacNabs have ever shown a taste for the cautious cause."

"Tut, tut,"