discrepancies in the
normal condition of things, I saw two men riding up the avenue, where the
yew trees, by the way, were loftier and finer in every way than those
really existing. The horsemen were dressed in such strange fashion that,
unfortunately, I paid little heed to their faces. They wore frilled
waistcoats, redingotes with huge lapels and turned-back cuffs,
three-cornered hats, and gigantic boots. They dismounted when close to the
house. One man held both horses; the other advanced. I was just going to
look him straight in the face when another figure appeared, coming from
that side of the hall where the entrance is situated. This was a gentleman
in very elegant garments, hatless, with powdered queue, pink satin coat
embroidered with lace, pink satin small-clothes, white silk stockings, and
low shoes. As he walked, a smart cane swung from his left wrist by a silk
tassel, and he took a pinch of snuff from an ivory box.

"The two men met and seemed to have a heated argument, bitter and
passionate on one side, studiously scornful on the other. This was all in
dumb show. Not a word did I hear. My amazed wits were fully taken up with
noting their clothes, their postures, the trappings of the horses, the
eighteenth century aspect of the library. Strange, is it not, I did not
look at their faces?"

Hume paused to gulp down the contents of his tumbler. Brett said not a
word, but sat intent, absorbed, wondering, with eyes fixed on the speaker.

"All at once the dispute became vehement. The more stylishly attired man
disappeared, but returned instantly with a drawn sword in his hand. The
stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two fought
fiercely. By Jove, it was no stage combat or French duel. They went for
each other as if they meant it. There was no stopping to take breath, nor
drawing apart after a foiled attack. Each man tried to kill the other as
speedily as possible. Three times they circled round in furious
sword-play. Then the stranger got his point home. The other, in mortal
agony, dropped his weapon, and tried with both hands to tear his
adversary's blade from his breast. He failed, and staggered back, the
victor still shoving the claymore through his opponent's body. Then, and
not until then, I saw the face of the man who was wounded, probably
killed. It was my cousin, Alan Hume-Fraser."

David Hume stopped again. His bronzed face was pale now. With his left
hand he swept huge drops o