The Master, looking down from above, thought that at length the little man's brain had gone.
“What is't yo' want?” he asked, as calmly as he could, hoping to gain time.
“What is't I want?” screamed the madman. “Hark to him! He crosses me in ilka thing; he plots agin me; he robs me o' ma Cup; he sets ma son agin me and pits him on to murder me! And in the end he—”
“Coom, then, coom! I'll—”
“Gie me back the Cup ye stole, James Moore! Gie me back ma son ye've took from me! And there's anither thing. What's yer gray dog doin'? Where's yer—”
The Master interposed again:
“I'll coom doon and talk things over wi' yo'.” he said soothingly. But before he could withdraw, M'Adam had jerked his weapon to his shoulder and aimed it full at his enemy's head.
The threatened man looked down the gun's great quivering mouth, wholly unmoved.
“Yo' mon hold it steadier, little mon, if yo'd hit!” he said grimly. “There, I'll coom help yo'!” He withdrew slowly; and all the time was wondering where the gray dog was.
In another moment he was downstairs, undoing the bolts and bars of the door. On the other side stood M'Adam, his blunderbuss at his shoulder, his finger trembling on the trigger, waiting.