‘Eh! the fit is on you too, boy!’
‘What fit, Sir?’ Malcolm opened his eyes.
‘The pleasing madness.’
Malcolm uttered a cry like horror, and reddened crimson. ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’ he stammered.
‘A well-known token of the disease is raving.’
‘Sir, Sir! I implore you to speak of nothing so profane.’
‘I am not given to profanity,’ said James, endeavouring to look severe, but with laughter in his voice. ‘Methought you were not yet so sacred a personage.’
‘Myself! No; but that I—I should dare to have such thoughts of—oh, Sir!’ and Malcolm covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, that you should have so mistaken me!’
‘I have not mistaken you,’ said James, fixing his keen eyes on him.
‘Oh, Sir!’ cried Malcolm, like one freshly stung, ‘you have! Never, never dreamt I of aught but worshipping as a living saint, as I would entreat St. Margaret or—’