"God pless her
sowl! you are plooding, Malcolm!" he cried the same moment.
"It's naething to greit aboot, daddy. It's hardly mair nor the
flype o' a sawmon's tail."
"Put who 'll pe tone it?" asked Duncan angrily.
"Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!" answered Malcolm with
indifference.
"Where is he?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "Take her to him,
Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife
her turk into his wicked pody."
"Na, na, daddy," said Malcolm; "we hae hed eneuch o' durks a'ready!"
"Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!"
"No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them."
"Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm--to pe peaten like a tog? Ton't
tell her tat! Ton't preak her heart, my poy."
"It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at
's lug."
"And she'll make no toubt it was true," cried Duncan, emerging
sudden from his despondency.
"Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say 't."
"Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton't say you tidn't gif him
pack his plow. Ton't tell it to her, Malcolm!"
"Hoo cud I hit my maister, an' mysel' i' the wrang, daddy?"
"Then she 'll must to it herself," said Duncan quietly, and, with
the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to
get his dirk from the next room.
"Bide ye still, daddy," said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, "an'
sit ye doon till ye hear a' aboot it first.
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