"
"Is ta tog tead then?" asked Duncan eagerly.
"Ow, na; he's breathin' yet," answered Malcolm.
"She'll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want more
killing."
"What a horrible savage!" said one of the lairds, a justice of the
peace. "He ought to be shut up in a madhouse."
"Gien ye set aboot shuttin' up, sir, or my lord--I kenna whilk
--ye'll hae to begin nearer hame," said Malcolm, as he stooped
to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the
weapons. "An' ye'll please to haud in min', that nane here is an
injured man but my gran'father himsel'."
"Hey!" said the marquis; "what do you make of all my dishes?"
"'Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel' that they warna dishes
wi barns (brains) i' them; for sic 's some scarce i' the Hoose o'
Lossie."
"You're a long tongued rascal," said the marquis.
"A lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my lord;
an' ye ken what that's for?"
The marquis burst into laughter.
"What do you make then of that horrible cut in your own hand?"
asked the magistrate.
"I mak my ain business o' 't," answered Malcolm.
While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for his
pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt
child.
"Come home, come home," he said; "your own pard has refenched you."
Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went without a
word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom.
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