"Mistress Catanach," interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her,
"gien I be un'er ony obligation to you, it 's frae anither tongue
I maun hear 't. But I hae an offer to mak ye: Sae lang as it disna
come oot 'at I 'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae
yer twinty poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. But the moment
fowk says wha I am, ye touch na a poun' note mair, an' I coont
mysel' free to pursue onything I can pruv agane ye."
Mrs Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was grey as
putty, and its muscles declined response.
"Ay or no," said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen
to yer aith no a hair."
"Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure,
and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her
open palm.
"Na, na!" said Malcolm, "nae forehan payments! Three months o'
tongue haudin', an' there 's yer five poun'; an' Maister Soutar o'
Duff Harbour 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. But brak troth wi'
me, an' ye s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt, the warl' wad be
but the cleaner. Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot
the place again. But afore ye gang, I gie ye fair warnin' 'at I
mean to win at a' yer byganes."
The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs Catanach's face; she drew
herself up, and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion.
"Gang frae the hoose," said Malcolm, "or I'll set the muckle hun'
to shaw ye the gait.
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