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Sitting down at the grindstone, the lad began to turn it while the smith, now dashing water over it, now putting both hands to the work, ground the dirk. An hour passed, and a second, with no sound save the whir of steel on stone and now and again the muttered words:—

Leaning back at last, he said “’Tis done! An’ such wark is better suited to a man o’ speerit than priggin’ farriery.”

He tried the edge with his thumb and smiled. From a chip he sliced a thin circular shaving that went with and across and against the grain. Laying a bit of iron on a board, he cut it clean in two with the dirk and the edge showed neither nick nor mark.

Phil rose now, and drew from inside his shirt his small pouch of silver. “I ’ll pay the score,” he said.

The Scot stared at him as if he would not believe his ears, then got up as if to thrust the dirk between the lad’s ribs.

“Those are very foul words,” he said thickly. “Nae penny nor plack will I take, and were ye a man bearded, I ’d leave ye a pudding for the hoodie-craw.”

The lad reddened and stammered, “I—I—why, I give you thanks and ask your pardon.”

The smith drew himself up and was about to speak harshly, but he saw the lad’s eyes filling and knew no harm was intended. He caught his breath and bit his beard. “’T is forgi’en an’ forgot,” he cried. “I hae