Instinctively, almost unconsciously, he threw his arm around her,
to shield her from her own terror.
"Dinna be fleyt, my leddy," he said. "It's naething but the mad
laird. He's a quaiet cratur eneuch, only he disna ken whaur he comes
frae--he disna ken whaur onything comes frae--an' he canna bide
it. But he wadna hurt leevin' cratur, the laird."
"What a dreadful face!" said the girl, shuddering.
"It's no an ill faured face," said Malcolm, "only the storm's
frichtit him by ord'nar, an' it's unco ghaistly the noo."
"Is there nothing to be done for him?" she said compassionately.
"No upo' this side the grave, I doobt, my leddy," answered Malcolm.
Here coming to herself the girl became aware of her support, and
laid her hand on Malcolm's to remove his arm. He obeyed instantly,
and she said nothing.
"There was some speech," he went on hurriedly, with a quaver in
his voice, "o' pittin' him intill the asylum at Aberdeen, an' no
lattin' him scoor the queentry this gait, they said; but it wad
hae been sheer cruelty, for the cratur likes naething sac weel
as rinnin' aboot, an' does no' mainner o' hurt. A verra bairn can
guide him. An' he has jist as guid a richt to the leeberty God gies
him as ony man alive, an' mair nor a hantle (more than many)."
"Is nothing known about him?"
"A' thing's known aboot him, my leddy, 'at 's known aboot the lave
(rest) o' 's. His father was the laird o' Gersefell--an' for
that maitter he's laird himsel' noo.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148