"Nothing," I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we bore
each other enmity at all.

"You hate me, or believe you do," said Manners, "because your father's
cousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate you
because my father hates your father's cousin. Are we not both mistaken?"

I was quick to anger and to fight, but no man's heart was more sensitive
than mine to the fair touch of a kind word.

"I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you," I
answered.

"Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm. Will you give me your hand?"

"Gladly," I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house.

"Landlord," I cried, "bring us two bottles of your best sack. The best in
the house, mind you."

After our amicable understanding, Sir John and myself were very
comfortable together, and when the sack and roast beef, for which the
Royal Arms was justly famous, were brought in, we sat down to an enjoyable
meal.

After supper Sir John lighted a small roll or stick made from the leaves
of tobacco. The stick was called a cigarro, and I, proud not to be behind
him in new-fashioned, gentlemanly accomplishments, called to the landlord
for a pipe. Manners interrupted me when I gave the order and offered me a
cigarro which I gladly accepted.