The door opened noiselessly. A night light, afloat in a crystal
cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying
on the crimson quilt. He crept in, closed the door behind him,
advanced halfway to the bed, and in a low voice called the marquis.
Lord Lossie started up on his elbow, and without a moment's
consideration seized one of a brace of pistols which lay on a table
by his side, and fired. The ball went with a sharp thud into the
thick mahogany door.
"My lord! my lord!" cried Malcolm, "it's only me!"
"And who the devil are you?" returned the marquis, snatching up
the second pistol.
"Malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord."
"Damn you! what are you about then? Get up. What are you after
there--crawling like a thief?"
As he spoke he leaped from the bed, and seized Malcolm by the back
of the neck.
"It's a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man," said Malcolm, "or
that bullet wad hae been throu' the hams o' me. Yer lordship's a
wheen ower rash."
"Rash! you rascal!" cried Lord Lossie; "when a fellow comes into
my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night! Get up,
and tell me what you are after, or, by Jove! I'll break every bone
in your body."
A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm's ribs fitly closed the
sentence.
"Ye are ower rash, my lord!" persisted Malcolm. "I canna get up.
I hae a fit the size o' a sma' buoy!"
"Speak, then, you rascal!" said his lordship, loosening his hold,
and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand.
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