His broadsword
flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words:
"Clenlyon! Ta creat dufil! Haf I peen trinking with ta hellhount,
Clenlyon?"--he would have run a Malay muck through the room with
his huge weapon. But he was already struggling in the arms of his
grandson, who succeeded at length in forcing from his bony grasp the
hilt of the terrible claymore. But as Duncan yielded his weapon,
Malcolm lost his hold on him. He darted away, caught his dirk
--a blade of unusual length--from its sheath, and shot in the
direction of the last word he had heard. Malcolm dropped the sword
and sprung after him.
"Gif her ta fillain by ta troat," screamed the old man. "She 'll
stap his pag! She'll cut his chanter in two! She'll pe toing it!
Who put ta creat cranson of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat
of ta tog Clenlyon!"
As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his
weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and dishes from
the table. The clatter was tremendous: and the smile had faded from
the faces of the men who had provoked the disturbance. The military
youth looked scared: the Hanoverian pig cheeks were the colour of
lead; the long lean man was laughing like a skeleton: one of the
lairds had got on the sideboard, and the other was making for the
door with the bell rope in his hand; the marquis, though he retained
his coolness, was yet looking a little anxious; the butler was
peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheekbones, the
handle in his hand, in instant readiness to pop out again; while
Malcolm was after his grandfather, intent upon closing with him.
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