At the far end a huge fire burnt cheerfully, and with his back
to it, his feet planted wide apart upon the hearth, stood a
powerfully built man of medium height, whose youthful face and
uprightness of carriage assorted ill with the grey of his hair,
pronouncing that greyness premature. He seemed all clad in
leather, for where his jerkin stopped his boots began. A
cuirass and feathered headpiece lay in a corner, whilst on the
table Kenneth espied a broad-brimmed hat, a huge sword, and a
brace of pistols.

As the boy's eyes came back to the burly figure on the hearth,
he was puzzled by a familiar, intangible something in the
fellow's face.

He was racking his mind to recall where last he had seen it,
when with slightly elevated eyebrows and a look of recognition
in his somewhat prominent blue eyes

"Soul of my body," exclaimed the man in surprise, "Master
Stewart, as I live."

"Stuart!" cried both sergeant and trooper in a gasp, starting
forward to scan their prisoner's face.

At that the burly captain broke into a laugh.

"Not the young man Charles Stuart," said he; "no, no. Your
captive is none so precious. It is only Master Kenneth
Stewart, of Bailienochy."