“For an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht,” said Malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. “Ye maun come hame the noo.”
“Is ta tog tead then?” asked Duncan eagerly.
“Ow, na; he’s breathin’ yet,” answered Malcolm.
“She’ll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want more killing.”
“What a horrible savage!” said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. “He ought to be shut up in a madhouse.”
“Gien ye set aboot shuttin’ up, sir, or my lord—I kenna whilk —ye’ll hae to begin nearer hame,” said Malcolm, as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. “An’ ye’ll please to haud in min’, that nane here is an injured man but my gran’father himsel’.”
“Hey!” said the marquis; “what do you make of all my dishes?”
“’Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel’ that they warna dishes wi harns (brains) i’ them; for sic’s some scarce i’ the Hoose o’ Lossie.”
“You’re a long-tongued rascal,” said the marquis.
“A lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my lord; an’ ye ken what that’s for?”