Ere it struck the water he had turned, and,
with long stride but low bent head, walked away. A pang shot to
Lady Florimel's heart. "Malcolm!" she cried.
He turned instantly, came slowly back, and stood erect and silent
before her.
She must say something. Her eye fell on the little parcel beside
her, and she spoke the first thought that came.
"Will you take this?" she said, and offered him the handkerchief.
In a dazed way he put out his hand and took it, staring at it as
if he did not know what it was.
"It's some sair!" he said at length, with a motion of his hands as
if to grasp his head between them. "Ye winna tak even the washin'
o' a pocket nepkin frae me, an' ye wad gar me tak a haill half
croon frae yersel'! Mem, ye're a gran' leddy an' a bonny; an ye
hae turns aboot ye, gien 'twar but the set o' yer heid, 'at micht
gar an angel lat fa' what he was carryin', but afore I wad affront
ane that wantit naething o' me but gude will, I wad--I wad--
raither be the fisher lad that I am."
A weak kneed peroration, truly; but Malcolm was over burdened at
last. He laid the little parcel on the sand at her feet, almost
reverentially, and again turned. But Lady Florimel spoke again.
"It is you who are affronting me now," she said gently. "When a lady
gives her handkerchief to a gentleman, it is commonly received as
a very great favour indeed."
"Gien I hae made a mistak, my leddy, I micht weel mak it, no bein' a
gentleman, and no bein' used to the traitment o' ane.
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