Thank ye, my leddy."
"I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?"
"Ay, sometimes--i' the lang forenights."
"What do you mean by the forenights?"
"I mean efter it's dark an' afore ye gang to yer bed.--He likes
the battles o' the angels best. As sune 's it comes to ony fechtin',
up he gets, an' gangs stridin' aboot the flure; an' whiles he maks
a claucht at 's claymore; an' faith! ance he maist cawed aff my
heid wi' 't, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur I was sittin'."
"What's a claymore?"
"A muckle heelan' braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius verra
likly; an' more 's the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword.
Blin' as my gran'father is, ye wad sweer he had fochten in 's day,
gien ye hard hoo he'll gar't whurr an' whustle aboot 's heid as
gien 't war a bit lath o' wud."
"But that's very dangerous," said Florimel, something aghast at
the recital.
"Ow, ay!" assented Malcolm, indifferently,--"Gien ye wad luik
in, my leddy, I wad lat ye see his claymore, an' his dirk, an' his
skene dhu, an' a'."
"I don't think I could venture. He's too dreadful! I should be
terrified at him."
"Dreidfu' my leddy? He's the quaietest, kin'liest auld man I that
is, providit ye say naething for a Cawmill, or agen ony ither
hielanman. Ye see he comes o' Glenco, an' the Cawmills are jist a
hate till him--specially Cawmill o' Glenlyon, wha was the warst
o' them a'. Ye sud hear him tell the story till 's pipes, my leddy!
It's gran' to hear him! An' the poetry a' his ain!"
CHAPTER XVI: THE STORM
There came a blinding flash, and a roar through the leaden air,
followed by heavy drops mixed with huge hailstones.
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