"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely
more time than Demon would have taken.
Hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken
place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed.
In the front garret--with a dormer window looking down into the
street--stood Mrs Catanach facing the door, with such a malignant
rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. Her dog lay at
her feet with his throat torn out.
As soon as she saw Malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar
imprecation--most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record.
"Hoots! for shame, Mistress Catanach!" he cried, "Here's my leddy
ahin' me, hearin' ilka word!"
"Deil stap her lugs wi' brunstane! What but a curse wad she hae
frae me? I sweir by God i s' gar her pey for this, or my name's no
--" She stopped suddenly.
"I thocht as muckle," said Malcolm with a keen look.
"Ye'll think twise, ye deil's buckie, or ye think richt! Wha are
ye to think? What sud my name be but Bawby Catanach? Ye're unco
upsettin' sin' ye turned my leddy's flunky! Sorrow taik ye baith!
My dawtit Beauty!--worriet by that hell tyke o' hers!"
"Gien ye gang on like that, the markis 'll hae ye drummed oot o'
the toon or twa days be ower," said Malcolm.
"Wull he than?" she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the
teeth she had left. "Ye'll be far hen wi' the markis, nae doobt!
An' yon donnert auld deevil ye ca' yer gran'father 'ill be fain
eneuch to be drummer, I'll sweir.
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