the republic of Sidney and the monarchy of Montrose? What had
your sires to do with England that they should have the foul
offering of the blood of Derwentwater and the heart of Jimmy
Dawson? Where are the corpses of Culloden? Where is the blood of
Lochiel?" MacIan advanced upon his opponent with a bony and
pointed finger, as if indicating the exact pocket in which the
blood of that Cameron was probably kept; and Edward VII fell back
a few paces in considerable confusion.

"What good have you ever done to us?" he continued in harsher and
harsher accents, forcing the other back towards the flower-beds.
"What good have you ever done, you race of German sausages? Yards
of barbarian etiquette, to throttle the freedom of aristocracy!
Gas of northern metaphysics to blow up Broad Church bishops like
balloons. Bad pictures and bad manners and pantheism and the
Albert Memorial. Go back to Hanover, you humbug? Go to----"

Before the end of this tirade the arrogance of the monarch had
entirely given way; he had fairly turned tail and was trundling
away down the path. MacIan strode after him still preaching and
flourishing his large, lean hands. The other two remained in the
centre of the lawn--Turnbull in convulsions of laughter, the
lunatic in convulsions of disgust. Almost at the same moment a
third figure came stepping swiftly across the lawn.

The advancing figure walked with a stoop, and yet somehow flung
his forked and narrow beard forward. That carefully cut and
pointed yellow beard was, indeed, the most emphatic thing about
him. When he clasped his hands behind him, under the tails of his
coat, he would wag his beard at a man like a big forefinger. It