I believe some compunction, perhaps even admiration, mingled itself, in this case, with Lord Lossie’s relish of an odd and amusing situation, and that he was inclined to compliance with the conditions of atonement, partly for the sake of mollifying the wounded spirit of the highlander. He turned to his daughter and said,—
“Did you fix an hour, Flory, for your poor father to make amende honorable?”
“No, papa; I did not go so far as that.”
The marquis kept a few moments’ grave silence.
“Your lordship is surely not meditating such a solecism?” said Mr Morrison, the justice-laird.
“Indeed I am,” said the marquis.
“It would be too great a condescension,” said Mr Cavins; “and your lordship will permit me to doubt the wisdom of it. These fishermen form a class by themselves; they are a rough set of men, and only too ready to despise authority. You will not only injure the prestige of your rank, my lord, but expose yourself to endless imposition.”
“The spirit moves me, and we are commanded not to quench the spirit,” rejoined the marquis with a merry laugh, little thinking that he was actually describing what was going on in him—that the spirit of good concerning which he jested, was indeed not working in him, but gaining on him, in his resolution of that moment.
“Come, Flory,” said the marquis, to whom it gave a distinct pleasure to fly in the face of advice, “we’ll go at once, and have it over.”
So they set out together for the Seaton, followed by the bagpipes, carried by the same servant as before, and were received by the overjoyed Malcolm, and ushered into his grandfather’s presence.