“To retreat, the better to spring forward,” put in Murray, with half-hearted effrontery.
“To _retreat_, I said. The Prince goes forward always. It is his habit. You’ve won many of the Highland chiefs to your side, but the best of them you cannot tempt.”
“You are curiously exact in your knowledge of my doings,” sneered Murray.
“I made it my business since the day I first set eyes on you at Langton. That is neither here nor there. And yet there are some of us you cannot tempt. The Duke of Perth----”
“Yes, he, too, is mediæval,” snarled Murray. “You and he are out of date, Sir Jasper, and I tell you so.”
Again young Johnstone laughed, though at heart his sympathy and liking went out to this queer, downright squire from Lancashire.
“Then Lochiel,” went on Sir Jasper buoyantly--“is he, too, old and out of date? Lochiel--you know how the very name of him sings music to the Highlanders. Lochiel--dear God! the tears are in my eyes; he’s so like the free open moors I’ve left behind me.”
Murray’s thin lips came together. It was plain now where the weakness lay in a face that otherwise was strong and manly. The mouth was that of a nagging woman querulous, undisciplined, lined with bygone sneers. He was jealous of the Prince--jealous of this fine, upstanding squire who spoke his mind with disconcerting openness; but, most of all, he was jealous of Lochiel--Lochiel, the whisper of whose name set fire to loyal Highlandmen; Lochiel, who was gay and courtly and a pleasant comrade; Lochiel, who was hard as granite when men touched his inner faith; he was all that Lord Murray hated, all that Murray wished to be, and could not be.
“Sir Jasper, you’ve been plain of speech,” he said, with sudden fury. “Our quarrel need not be delayed. I ask Mr. Johnstone here if I can wait to give you satisfaction--until”--again the smile that was a sneer--“until after we are all beheaded on Tower Hill.”
Sir Jasper glanced up and down the road. They had it to themselves, though at any moment a company might ride into view along the straggling route. It was a grave breach of discipline, this duel in the midst of warfare; and yet, somehow, he found it welcome. He turned to the aide-de-camp, glanced quietly at him.