Sandy Liston. “I hae sat quiet!—quiet I hae sat against my will, no to disturb Jamie Drysel's weddin'; but ye carry the game ower far, Shylock, my lad. I'll just give yon bluidy-minded urang-utang a hidin', and bring Tony off, the gude, puir-spirited creature. And him, an' me, an' Bassanee, an' Porshee, we'll all hae a gill thegither.”
He rose, and was instantly seized by two of the company, from whom he burst furiously, after a struggle, and the next moment was heard to fall clean from the top to the bottom of the stairs. Flucker and Jean ran out; the rest appealed against the interruption.
Christie. “Hech! he's killed. Sandy Liston's brake his neck.”
“What aboot it, lassy?” said a young fisherman; “it's Antonio I'm feared for; save him, lassy, if poessible; but I doot ye'll no get him clear o' yon deevelich heathen.
“Auld Sandy's cheap sairved,” added he, with all the indifference a human tone could convey.
“Oh, Cursty,” said Lizzie Johnstone, with a peevish accent, “dinna break the bonny yarn for naething.”
Flucker (returning). “He's a' reicht.”
Christie. “Is he no dead?”
Flucker. “Him deed? he's sober—that's a' the change I see.”
Christie. “Can he speak? I'm asking ye.”