Faith!
I s' gar ony man ken a differ there!"
"Go along with you--and do n't show yourself till you 're fit to
be seen. I hope it 'll be a lesson to you."
"It wull, my lord," said Malcolm. "But," he added, "there was nae
occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i'
the wrang."
So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face.
The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm,
without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm
would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he
defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth,
and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their
cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one
unskilled, whatever his strength or agility.
For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the
room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable.
"The great lout!" he kept saying to himself; "why did he let me
strike him?"
Malcolm went to his grandfather's cottage. In passing the window,
he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his
knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to
him.
"Tere 'll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!" he
cried. "You'll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within
her, though she couldn't chust see it. Where is it?"
As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face.
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