As his ancient henchman followed Mr Fletcher toward the dungeons, the noble and godly gentleman himself was being told by his butler in the very middle of the delicate operation of tying his lace jabot that dinner would not be served until half-past eight. The effect of the rush of blood to the head provoked by this announcement was intensified by the fact that under the shock of the news he pulled the knot of the jabot much too tight. The indignant bellow was stifled in his throat and petered out in a low gurgle.

“Can I be of any assistance, sir?” Toker enquired solicitously.

The Chieftain managed to loosen the knot and breathe again.

“Did you say dinner would not be served until half-past eight?”

“By Mrs MacDonald’s orders, sir,” Toker made haste to add hastily. His master glared at him.

“What are you jigging about like that for, you ninny?”

“I beg pardon, sir. The action was not deliberate. Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Yes, you can get out.”

The Chieftain spent some minutes composing his nerves after the shock administered to them by Toker’s news about the postponement of dinner for a quarter of an hour by debating with himself which of his doublets he should wear this evening. In the end he chose a tartan one buttoned to the neck with eagles’ heads of silver. He looked at himself in the glass. Serenity once more enfolded him as he left his dressing-room and descended to the Great Hall. Outside the massive doors his piper Angus MacQuat stepped forward to ask if there was any special tune he would like this evening.

“No, I leave it to you, Angus.”

“I was thinking if perhaps you would like Mac ’ic Eachainn’s March Against Moy.”

“Ah, to celebrate our little scuffle in the heather this afternoon?”

“That was my idea, Ben Nevis.”

“Well, Angus, I don’t think it’s quite fair to put even Macintoshes on a level with hikers.”

“No, perhaps it is a little strong, Ben Nevis.”

“I really think it is, Angus. You’d better give us some Jacobite tunes to-night. Mrs Royde is a very keen Jacobite.”

“Very good, Ben Nevis. To-morrow night I will be playing my new pibroch.”

“Ah, what’s that called?”

“The Braes of Strathdiddle.”

“In celebration of our little scuffle in the heather, eh?”

“That is so, Ben Nevis.”

“Capital, Angus. I shall look forward to that. You missed a grand afternoon.”

The Chieftain passed on into the Great Hall, and barked at his assembled guests like an immensely friendly dog.

“Ah, there you all are! Dinner’s not till half-past. I had to postpone it to give Mr Fletcher a chance to finish a reprimand he is giving to the hikers on my behalf. I’m setting them free after that. They’ve had their lesson.”

Chapter 5

THE DUNGEONS

“WELL, I CALL this properly chronic, Ethel.”

“You’re right. It is chronic.”