Gordon had seen the horsemen. He was coming straight toward them—a slim, boyish figure in the shadow of the ancient trees. His square, little jaw was set—the iron jaws of Fire-the-Braes and Lang-Sword; the firm, almost ugly, ones of the old earl and Sir James— the jaw that for centuries had marked the lords of the house of Gordon; but the eyes were Lady Margaret’s; deep blue, almost black, and the old Douglas fire burned in them. “Bell-the-Cat'' would have been proud of the lad had he seen him. But to the boy it was Daddy Shannon's cabin that rose before him, and the rough back-woodsman at the edge of the clearing. The child whispered as if in answer to the words of a year ago:
“We’re going to fight it out right now; and, Daddy, this time—God helping me—I’ll play the man.”
Sir Roger drew up his horse with a jerk that turned the foam red from the points of the bit.
“Where did you see Stephen Douglas? Where did he give you the papistical Sacraments? The truth, sir, or it will be the worse for you!”
Amazed, the boy stared at him. How could Sir Roger have learned so soon ?
“No words are needed. Your face speaks for you.”
Godfrey laughed unpleasantly. Gordon’s tongue was never made for cunning speeches. It was always yes or no with him. Tell a lie ? He never had. Tell the truth ? Betray Friar Stephen? Not while the breath of life stirred in him! So he said nothing.