While the earl and
his steward were thus engaged, a tall seneschal with his serving men
came into the hall to clear away the remains of the banquet; and as the
old minstrel left his place at the fireside to continue his harping in
the supping room of the guards, the two lads, Alpin of Bute and Allan
Redmain, stepped to the hearth to hold converse with the three guests.
Alpin and his young friend were both about nineteen years of age. They
were almost full grown, and manly exercise had made them strong. They
wore their rough hunting clothes -- loose vests of leather, homespun
kilts, and untanned buskins. They carried no weapons, for it was held in
custom that none should sit armed at table in the presence of strangers.
"Tell me, Earl Roderic," said Alpin, running his fingers through his
long hair -- "you have, you say, been in far-off Iceland -- tell me, is
it true that in that land there be many mountains that shoot forth fire
and brimstone?"
"Ay, that is quite true, my lad," said his much-travelled uncle, "for I
have myself seen such mountains. Higher than Goatfell they are, with
streams of fire pouring down their glens."
"A most marvellous country!" exclaimed Alpin. "I wonder much if I shall
ever behold that land."
"There you will have no such lordly feast as that we have just risen
from," added Roderic, picking his teeth with his broad thumbnail.
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