The old man had just made a desperate stab at nothing half across
the table, and was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a
fine dish, Malcolm reached forward to save it. But the dish flew
in splinters, and the dirk passing through the thick of Malcolm's
hand, pinned it to the table, where Duncan, fancying he had at
length stabbed Glenlyon, left it quivering.
"Tere, Clenlyon," he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion,
and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic.
Meantime Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released
his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took
his own handkerchief to bind it up; but the lad indignantly refused
the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand.
The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared
countenance, to approach the scene of destruction.
"Dinna gang near him," cried Malcolm. "He has his skene dhu yet,
an' in grips that's warst ava."
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was
out of Duncan's stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist.
"Daddy!" cried Malcolm, "ye wadna kill twa Glenlyons in ae day--
wad ye?"
"She would, my son Malcolm!--fifty of ta poars in one preath!
Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont."
"For an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht," said Malcolm,
and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. "Ye maun come
hame the noo.
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