"Go and send Stoat here."
"Is there ony hurry aboot Sto't, my lord?" asked Malcolm, hesitating.
"I had a word to say to yer lordship mysel'."
"Make haste then."
"I 'm some fain to gang back to the fishin', my lord," said Malcolm.
"This is ower easy a life for me. The deil wins in for the liftin'
o' the sneck. Forbye, my lord, a life wi'oot aither danger or wark
's some wersh-like (insipid); it wants saut, my lord. But a' that
's naither here nor there, I ken, sae lang's ye want me oot o' the
hoose, my lord."
"Who told you I wanted you out of the house? By Jove! I should have
made shorter work of it. What put that in your head? Why should
I?"
"Gien yer lordship kens nane, sma' occasion hae I to baud a rizzon
to yer han'. I thoucht--but the thoucht itsel's impidence."
"You young fool! You thought, because I came upon you as I did in
the garret the other night--Bah!--You damned ape! As if I could
not trust--! Pshaw!"
For the moment Malcolm forgot how angry his master had certainly
been, although, for Florimel's sake doubtless, he had restrained
himself; and fancied that, in the faint light of the one candle,
he had seen little to annoy him, and had taken the storm and its
results, which were indeed the sole reason, as a sufficient one for
their being alone together. Everything seemed about to come right
again. But his master remained silent.
"I houp my leddy's weel," ventured Malcolm at length.
"Quite well. She's with Lady Bellair, in Edinburgh.
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