“Ill-deedit,” returned Malcolm, “—whan ye flang my bonny sawmon-troot till yer oogly deevil o’ a dog.”
“Ho! ho! ho! Ill-deedit, am I? I s’ no forget thae bonny names! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o’ speirin’ anither queston at ye, Ma’colm MacPhail.”
“Ye may speir ’at ye like, sae lang ’s ye canna gar me stan’ to hearken. Guid-day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer company was nane o’ my seekin’: I may lea’ ’t whan I like.”
“Dinna ye be ower sure o’ that,” she called after him venomously.
But Malcolm turned his head no more.
As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs Catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of it. When she arrived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if contemplating her.
Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel’s side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird.
“I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” he said.
Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive-looking woman staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad laird, catching sight of Mrs Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune and sped along the shore. Mrs Catanach shook with laughter. “I hae skailled (dispersed) the bonny doos!” she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl,—
“My leddy! My bonny leddy!”