Now let the wail of the lament waken the echoes of black Ben-Muchty!

Macphail.

[Rising from the chair.] It’s not at all necessary, mother.

Egidia.

He can stand!

Dowager.

[Writing.] “Bring—chloroform—and knives.”

Lady Macphail.

Ah, Colin, lad, why did we ever quit the gray shores of Loch-na-Doich?

Macphail.