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The master armourer of Earl Douglas did not lift his eyes till his son
had half crossed the road. Then, even as if a rank of spearmen at the
word of command had lifted their glittering points to the "ready,"
Sholto MacKim stopped dead where he was, with a sort of gasp in his
throat, like one who finds his defenceless body breast high against
the line of hostile steel.
"The purple velvet!" came the cautious whisper from behind. But the
taunt was powerless now.
The smith held his son a moment with his eyes.
"Well?" came in the deep low voice, more like the lowest tones of an
organ than the speech of a man.
Sholto stood fixed, then half turning on his heel he began to walk
towards the corner of the dwelling-house, over which a gay streamer of
the early creeping convolvulus danced and swung in the stirring of the
light breeze.
"You wish speech with me?" said his father, in the same level and
thrilling undertone.
"No," said Sholto, hesitant in spite of himself, "but I thought--that
is I desired--saw you my sister Magdalen pass this way? I have
somewhat to give her.


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