"
The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too,
and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.
"Go to the devil you booby!" he said--even more in impatience
than in wrath.
"I'm thinkin' I needna budge," retorted Malcolm, angry also.
"What do you mean by that insolence?"
"I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna
be far frae yer lordship's lug this meenute."
All the marquis's gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He
started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck
him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by
the door.
"Hoot, my lord!" he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton
handkerchief, "ye sudna hae dune that: ye'll blaud the carpet!"
"You precious idiot!" cried his lordship, already repenting the
deed; "why did n't you defend yourself?"
"The quarrel was my ain, an' I cud du as I likit, my lord."
"And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even
to defend yourself!" said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and
with himself.
"Because I saw I was i' the wrang, my. lord. The quarrel was o'
my ain makin': I hed no richt to lowse my temper an' be impident.
Sae I didna daur defen' mysel'. An' I beg yer lordship's pardon.
But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, 'cause I took a
flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel' i' the wrang, 'at
that's hoo I wad cairry mysel' gien 'twas for the puir laird.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359