It was Johnson in a secondhand riding-coat of blue camlet, cut somewhat in the military fashion, and in all likelihood once the property of some dashing yeoman. But that was only half of his new magnificence, for below the riding-coat, beneath his drab coat, and buckled above his waistcoat, was a great belt, and from the belt depended a long scabbard.
“I make you my compliments,” said Alastair. “You have acquired a cloak.”
“Nay, sir, but I have acquired a better thing. I have got me a sword.”
He struggled with his skirts and after some difficulty drew from its sheath a heavy old-fashioned cut-and-thrust blade, of the broadsword type. With it he made a pass or two, and then brought it down in a sweep which narrowly missed the bedpost.
“Now am I armed against all enemies,” he cried, stamping his foot. “If Polyphemus comes, have at his eye,” and he lunged towards the window.
The mingled solemnity and triumph of his air checked Alastair’s laughter. “This place is somewhat confined for swordplay,” he said. “Put it up, and tell me where you discovered the relic.”
“I purchased it this very afternoon, through the good offices of the lad below. There was an honest or indifferent honest fellow in the neighbourhood who sold me cloak, belt and sword for three half-guineas. It is an excellent weapon, and I trust to you, sir, to give me a lesson or two in its use.”
He flung off the riding-coat, unbuckled the belt and sat himself in his accustomed chair.
“Two men are better than one on the roads,” he said, “the more if both are armed. I would consult you, sir, on a point of honour. I have told you that I am reputably, though not highly born, and I have had a gentleman’s education. I am confident that but for a single circumstance, no gentleman need scruple to cross swords with me or to draw his sword by my side. The single circumstance is this—I have reason to believe that a relative suffered death by hanging, though for what cause I do not know, since the man disappeared utterly and his end is only a matter of gossip. Yet I must take the supposition at its worst. Tell me, sir, does that unhappy connection in your view deprive me of the armigerous rights of a gentleman?”
This time Alastair did not forbear to smile.
“Why no, sir. In my own land, the gallows is reckoned an ornament to a pedigree, and it has been the end of many a promising slip of my own house. Indeed it is not unlikely to be the end of me. But why do you ask the question?”
“Because I purpose to go with you to the wars.”
Johnson’s face was as serious as a judge’s, and his dull eyes had kindled with a kind of shamefaced ardour. The young man felt so strong a tide of affection rising in him for this uncouth crusader that he had to do violence to his own inclination in shaping his counsel.
“It cannot be, my dear sir,” he cried. “I honour you, I love you, but I will not permit a futile sacrifice. Had England risen for our Prince, your aid would have been most heartily welcome, but now the war will be in Scotland, and I tell you it is as hopeless as a battle of a single kestrel against a mob of ravens. I fight in it, for that is my trade and duty; I have been bred to war, and it is the quarrel of my house and my race. But for you it is none of these things. You would be a stranger in a foreign strife. … Nay, sir, but you must listen to reason. You are a scholar and have your career to make in a far different world. God knows I would welcome your comradeship, for I respect your courage and I love your honest heart, but I cannot suffer you to ride to certain ruin. Gladly I accept your convoy, but you will stop short of Ramoth-Gilead.”
The other’s face was a heavy mask of disappointment. “I must be the judge of my own path,” he said sullenly.
“But you will be guided in that judgment by one who knows better than you the certainties of the road. It is no part of a man’s duty to walk aimlessly to death.”
The last word seemed to make Johnson pause. But he recovered himself.
“I have counted the cost,” he said. “I fear death, God knows, but not more than other men. I will be no stranger in your wars. I will change my name to MacIan, and be as fierce as any Highlander.”
“It cannot be. What you told Midwinter is the truth. If you are not fitted by nature for Old England, still less are you fitted for our wild long-memoried North. You will go back to London, Mr. Johnson, and some day you will find fortune and happiness. You will marry some day …”
At the word Johnson’s face grew very red, and he turned his eyes on the ground and rolled his head with an odd nervous motion.
“I have misled you,” he said. “I have been married these ten years. My dear Tetty is now living in the vicinity of London. … I have not written to her for seven weeks. Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!”
He put his head in his hands and seemed to be absorbed in a passion of remorse.
“You must surely return to her,” said Alastair gently.
Johnson raised his head. “I would not have you think that I had forgotten her. She has her own small fortune, which suffices for one, though scant enough for two. I earn so little that I am rather an encumbrance than an aid, and she is more prosperous in my absence.”
“Yet she must miss you, and if you fall she will be widowed.”
“True, true. I have no clearness in the matter. I will seek light in prayer and
