"
"Alas!" said Allan. "Then, where can Kenric be?"
"Where indeed?" sighed Sir Piers.
At this moment one of the men of Arran touched his master's arm.
"There is a fishing coracle coming alongside of us, my master," said he,
"with two fishermen in her."
Sir Piers and Allan crossed the deck and saw a small boat bearing
towards them, rowed by a brawny western islander.
"Saint Columba protect us!" cried Allan. "Look but at that man sitting
in the stern! 'Tis none other than Duncan Graham of Rothesay, my lord
Kenric's henchman. Whence comes he? and where is his master?
"Duncan! Duncan!" he called.
Duncan raised his eyes. His face was haggard and wan. His cheeks were
thin, his clothes torn and bloodstained.
Allan threw down a rope's end, and the boat was drawn alongside.
Scarcely able to move his gaunt limbs, Duncan clambered up the galley's
side and fell upon the deck, moaning. From under his ragged plaid he
drew a formidable sword and held it towards Allan without speaking a word.
"The Thirsty Sword!" cried Allan in dread surprise as he took the
weapon. "Alas! Kenric is most surely dead!"
"Not so!" moaned Duncan, lolling out his tongue. "Ah, food, food!"
Then Sir Piers de Currie bent down, and with the help of Allan took up
the giant form of Duncan, and carried him below into the cabin.
For two long hours the man lay without uttering a word.
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