Ian also was tall, but not so largely made as was the other.  Lithe, embrowned, with gold-bronze hair and eyes, knit of a piece, moving as by one undulation, there was something in him not like the Scot, something foreign, exotic.  Sometimes Alexander called him “Saracen”—­a finding of the imagination that dated from old days upon the moor above the Kelpie’s Pool when they read together the Faery Queen.  The other day, at Black Hill, this ancient fancy had played through Alexander’s mind while Mr. Wotherspoon talked of Italy, and Mrs. Alison of Babylonish lords....  The point was that he relished Paynim knight and Renaissance noble and prince of Babylon.  Let Ian seem or be all that, and richer yet!  Still there would be Ian, outside of all circles drawn.

In the room that he called the “alchemical,” Ian, disengaging himself, turned and put both hands on Alexander’s shoulders.  “Thou Old Steadfast!” he cried.  “God knows how glad I am to see thee!”

Alexander laughed.  “Not more glad than I am at the sight of you!  What’s the tidings?”

“What should they be?  I am tired of being King George’s soldier!”

“So that you are tired of being any little king of this earth’s soldier!”

“Why, I think I am—­”

“Kings ‘over the water’ included, Ian?”

“Kings without kingdoms?  Well,” said Ian, “they don’t amount to much, do they?”

“They do not.”  The two moved together to the table and the chairs by it.  “You are free of them, Ian?”

“What is it to be free of them?”

“Well, to be plain, out of the Stewart cark and moil!  Pretender, Chevalier de St. George, or uncrowned king—­let it drift away like the dead leaf it is!”

“A dead leaf.  Is it a dead leaf?...  I wonder!...  But you are usually right, old Steadfast!”

“I see that you will not tell me plainly.”

“Are you so anxious?  There is nothing to be anxious about.”

“Nothing....  What is ’nothing’?”

Ian drummed upon the table and whistled “Lillibullero.”  “Something—­nothing.  Nothing—­something!  Old Steadfast, you are a sight for sair een!  They say you make the best of lairds!  Every cotter sings of just ways!”

“My father was a good laird.  I would not shatter the tradition.  Come with me to Edinburgh and London, on that journey I wrote you of!”

“No.  I want to sink into the summer green and not raise my head from some old poetry book!  I have been marching and countermarching until I am tired.  As for what you have in your mind, don’t fash yourself about it!  I will say that, at the moment, I think it is a dead leaf....  Of course, should the Pope’s staff unexpectedly begin to bud and flower—!  But it mayn’t—­indeed, it only looks at present smooth and polished and dead....  I left the army because, naturally, I didn’t want to be there in case—­just in case—­the staff budded.  Heigho!  It is the truth.  You need not look troubled,” said Ian.