Perhaps a yet stronger proof is the fact,
fully asserted by one Gaelic scholar at least, that their literature
contains nothing to foster feelings of revenge.]
The master placed so little value on any possible results of
mere argument, and had indeed so little faith in any words except
such as came hot from the heart, that he said no more, but, with
an invitation to Malcolm to visit him in the evening, wished them
good day, and turned in at his own door.
The two went slowly on towards the sea town. The road was speckled
with home goers, single and in groups, holding a quiet Sunday pace
to their dinners. Suddenly Duncan grasped Malcolm's arm with the
energy of perturbation, almost of fright, and said in a loud whisper:
"Tere'll be something efil not far from her, Malcolm, my son! Look
apout, look apout, and take care how you'll pe leading her."
Malcolm looked about, and replied, pressing Duncan's arm, and
speaking in a low voice, far less audible than his whisper,
"There's naebody near, daddy--naebody but the howdie wife."
"What howdie wife do you mean, Malcolm?"
"Hoot! Mistress Catanach, ye ken. Dinna lat her hear ye."
"I had a feeshion, Malcolm--one moment, and no more; ta darkness
closed arount it: I saw a ped, Malcolm, and--"
"Wheesht, wheesht; daddy!" pleaded Malcolm importunately. "She hears
ilka word ye're sayin'. She's awfu' gleg, and she's as poozhonous
as an edder. Haud yer tongue, daddy; for guid sake haud yer tongue.
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