“The same,” answered Sir Duncan,—­“what would you with one whose hours are now numbered?”

“My hours are reduced to minutes,” said the outlaw; “the more grace, if I bestow them in the service of one, whose hand has ever been against me, as mine has been raised higher against him.”

“Thine higher against me!—­Crushed worm!” said the Knight, looking down on his miserable adversary.

“Yes,” answered the outlaw, in a firm voice, “my arm hath been highest.  In the deadly contest betwixt us, the wounds I have dealt have been deepest, though thine have neither been idle nor unfelt.—­I am Ranald MacEagh—­I am Ranald of the Mist—­the night that I gave thy castle to the winds in one huge blaze of fire, is now matched with the day in which you have fallen under the sword of my fathers.—­Remember the injuries thou hast done our tribe—­never were such inflicted, save by one, beside thee.  He, they say, is fated and secure against our vengeance—­a short time will show.”

“My Lord Menteith,” said Sir Duncan, raising himself out of his bed, “this is a proclaimed villain, at once the enemy of King and Parliament, of God and man—­one of the outlawed banditti of the Mist; alike the enemy of your house, of the M’Aulays, and of mine.  I trust you will not suffer moments, which are perhaps my last, to be embittered by his barbarous triumph.”

“He shall have the treatment he merits,” said Menteith; “let him be instantly removed.”

Sir Dugald here interposed, and spoke of Ranald’s services as a guide, and his own pledge for his safety; but the high harsh tones of the outlaw drowned his voice.

“No,” said he, “be rack and gibbet the word! let me wither between heaven and earth, and gorge the hawks and eagles of Ben-Nevis; and so shall this haughty Knight, and this triumphant Thane, never learn the secret I alone can impart; a secret which would make Ardenvohr’s heart leap with joy, were he in the death agony, and which the Earl of Menteith would purchase at the price of his broad earldom.—­Come hither, Annot Lyle,” he said, raising himself with unexpected strength; “fear not the sight of him to whom thou hast clung in infancy.  Tell these proud men, who disdain thee as the issue of mine ancient race, that thou art no blood of ours,—­no daughter of the race of the Mist, but born in halls as lordly, and cradled on couch as soft, as ever soothed infancy in their proudest palaces.”

“In the name of God,” said Menteith, trembling with emotion, “if you know aught of the birth of this lady, do thy conscience the justice to disburden it of the secret before departing from this world!”

“And bless my enemies with my dying breath?” said MacEagh, looking at him malignantly.—­“Such are the maxims your priests preach—­but when, or towards whom, do you practise them?  Let me know first the worth of my secret ere I part with it—­What would you give, Knight of Ardenvohr, to know that your superstitious fasts have been vain, and that there still remains a descendant of your house?—­I pause for an answer—­without it, I speak not one word more.