"
"Well, well, we'll see."
"But I wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord," said Malcolm, as
he followed the marquis down the stairs.
"What is that?"
"I cam upo' anither plot--a mair serious ane, bein' against a man
'at can ill haud aff o' himsel', an' cud waur bide onything than
yer lordship--the puir mad laird."
"Who's he?"
"Ilka body kens him, my lord! He's son to the leddy o' Kirkbyres."
"I remember her--an old flame of my brother's."
"I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he's her son."
"What about him, then?"
They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient,
Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts.
"I don't think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail," said
his lordship, seriously. "His mother must know best."
"I'm no sae sure o' that, my lord! To say naething o' the ill
guideship, which micht hae 'garred a minister sweer, it wud be
a cruelty naething short o' deev'lich to lock up a puir hairmless
cratur like that, as innocent as he 's ill shapit."
"He's as God made him," said the marquis.
"He 's no as God wull mak him," returned Malcolm.
"What do you mean by that?" asked the marquis.
"It stan's to rizzon, my lord," answered Malcolm, "that what's ill
made maun be made ower again. There's a day comin' whan a' 'at's
wrang 'll be set richt, ye ken."
"And the crooked made straight," suggested the marquis laughing.
"Doobtless, my lord. He'll be strauchtit oot bonny that day," said
Malcolm with absolute seriousness.
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