He seemed all clad in leather, for where his jerkin stopped his boots began.

A cuirass and feathered headpiece lay in a corner, whilst on the table Kenneth espied a broad-brimmed hat, a huge sword, and a brace of pistols.
As the boy's eyes came back to the burly figure on the hearth, he was puzzled by a familiar, intangible something in the fellow's face.
He was racking his mind to recall where last he had seen it, when with slightly elevated eyebrows and a look of recognition in his somewhat prominent blue eyes.
"Soul of my body," exclaimed the man in surprise, "Master Stewart, as I live." "Stuart!" cried both sergeant and trooper in a gasp, starting forward to scan their prisoner's face.
At that the burly captain broke into a laugh.
"Not the young man Charles Stuart," said he; "no, no.

Your captive is none so precious.

It is only Master Kenneth Stewart, of Bailienochy." "Then it is not even our man," grumbled the soldier.
"But Stewart is not the name he gave," cried the sergeant.

"Jasper Blount he told me he was called.