“What does Mr Royde know about such matters?” Mrs MacDonald asked, the bitter-sweetness of the oboe audible for a moment in her tone. “I’m sure Hugh doesn’t think you ought to keep them here a week.”

“Hugh agrees with me that the time has come for landowners to take a firm stand. Ever since the Lloyd George Budget before the war we’ve allowed ourselves to be harried and bullied and persecuted and robbed right and left. Hugh agrees with me that a lead is required.”

“If Hugh Cameron thinks any good will come of your imprisoning hikers and campers on your own he certainly should be on a lead.” The oboe was reinforced by the bassoon.

“I don’t mean that kind of a lead, Trixie. I mean the lead given by a leader.”

“Nobody is fonder of Hugh than I am, but if he’s going to fill your head with all these extravagant ideas I shall not be fond of him any longer.” The deep rich diapason was again flooding the Chieftain’s dressing-room.

“Hugh is loyal, Trixie. He holds fast to the old loyalties. Our ancestors stood back to back against the Macintoshes, and we don’t intend to be bullyragged by hikers. Lindsay-Wolseley can’t understand that kind of loyalty. He’s a Lowlander.”

“And I am English, Donald, and I think there are occasions when common sense is more valuable in a friendship than loyalty.”

“Now, look here, Trixie,” he protested. “I must ask you not to sneer at the old clan loyalties. And do let me get on with my dressing.”

“Very well, give me the keys and I’ll leave you to yourself.”

“I will not give you the keys. If you go and let those hikers out and offer them supper they’ll think I’m afraid of them. Before I know where I am they’ll be threatening me with an action for assault and false imprisonment and I don’t know what not.”

“Well,” said the Lady of Ben Nevis with dignified firmness, “even if you keep the men of the party shut up I insist, Donald, I insist on your releasing the girls.”

This was no Queen Philippa humbling herself in tears to beg the lives of the burghers of Calais from an angry monarch. This was a woman who had frequently had her own way before and was determined to have it again.

“Girls!” Ben Nevis scoffed. “I don’t call a lot of unsexed young females in corduroy shorts girls. To be shut up in a dungeon for a bit without any jazz is just what they require.”

“The dungeon under the North Tower is no place for girls to spend the night in, Donald, however scantily they may be clothed. There’s no kind of accommodation.”