CHAPTER XXXVII: THE CUTTER
Some days passed during which Malcolm contrived that no one should
see him: he stole down to his grandfather's early in the morning,
and returned to his own room at night. Duncan told the people
about that he was not very well, but would be all better in a day
or two. It was a time of jubilation to the bard, and he cheered his
grandson's retirement with music, and with wild stories of highland
lochs and moors, chanted or told.
Malcolm's face was now much better, though the signs of the blow
were still plain enough upon it, when a messenger came one afternoon
to summon him to the marquis's presence.
"Where have you been sulking all this time?" was his master's
greeting.
"I havena been sulkin', my lord," answered Malcolm. "Yer lordship
tauld me to haud oot o' the gait till I was fit to be seen, an' no
a sowl has set an ee upo' me till this verra moment 'at yer lordship
has me in yer ain."
"Where have you been then?"
"I' my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran'father's as lang's
fowk was aboot--wi' a bit dauner (stroll) up the burn i' the
mirk."
"You couldn't encounter the shame of being seen with such a face
--eh?"
"It micht ha' been thoucht a disgrace to the tane or the tither o'
's, my lord--maybe to baith."
"If you don't learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring
you to worse."
"My lord, I confessed my faut, and I pat up wi' the blow. But if
it hadna been that I was i' the wrang--weel, things micht hae
differt.
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