r insolence! Guard! or I will run you through where you stand," I
answered angrily.

"But why do we fight?" insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness that
showed he was not one whit in fear of me.

"You should know," I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, and
forgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel. "I--I do not."

"Then let us not fight," he answered, "until we have discovered the matter
of our disagreement."

At this remark neither of us could resist smiling. I had not fought since
months before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loath
to miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of half
a minute and remembered our cause of war.

"Oh! I recall the reason for our fighting," I replied, "and a good one it
was. You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultingly
refused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor to
tell you mine."

"I did not tell you my name," replied the stranger, "because I believed
you would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know Sir
George Vernon because--because he is my father's enemy. I am Sir John
Manners. My father is Lord Rutland."

Then it was my turn to recede. "You certainly are right. I do not care to
hear your name."

I put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its former
place. Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:--

"Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night? There is nothing
personal in the enmity between us."

"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 famo