Brawny Kim had not moved for an hour. His great hands lay in his lap,
and his eyes looked at the purple ridges of Screel, across the
beautiful loch of Carlinwark, which sparkled and dimpled restlessly
among its isles like a wilful beauty bridling under the gaze of a
score of gallants.

But, even as he went, Sholto's step slowed, and lost its braggart
strut and confidence. Behind him Laurence chuckled and laughed,
smiting his thigh in his mocking glee.

"The purple velvet, mind you, Sholto! How well it will become you,
coft from Rob Halliburton, our mother's own brother, seamed with red
gold and lined with yellow satin and cramosie. Well indeed will it set
you when Maud Lindesay, the maid who came from the north for company
to the Earl's sister, looks forth from the canopy upon you as you
stand in the archers' rank on the morrow's morn."

Sholto squared his shoulders, and with a little backward hitch of his
elbow which meant "Wait till I come back, and I will pay you for this
flouting," he strode determinedly across the green space towards his
father.

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