“It’s a richt bonny nicht, laird,” said Malcolm.
The poor fellow looked hurriedly behind him, then stared again, then made gestures backward, and next pointed at Malcolm with rapid pokes of his forefinger. Bewilderment had brought on the impediment in his speech, and all Malcolm could distinguish in the babbling efforts at utterance which followed, were the words,—“Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them!” often and hurriedly repeated.
“It’s a fine, saft-sleekit win’, laird,” said Malcolm, as if they were meeting for the first time that night. “I think it maun come frae the blue there, ayont the stars. There’s a heap o’ wonnerfu’ things there, they tell me; an’ whiles a strokin win’ an’ whiles a rosy smell, an’ whiles a bricht licht, an’ whiles, they say, an auld yearnin’ sang ’ill brak oot, an’ wanner awa doon, an’ gang flittin’ an’ fleein’ amang the sair herts o’ the men an’ women fowk ’at canna get things putten richt.”
“I think there are two fools of them!” said the marquis, referring to the words of the laird.
He was seated with Lady Florimel on the town side of the rock, hidden from them by one sharp corner. They had seen the mad laird coming, and had recognised Malcolm’s voice.
“I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” burst from the laird, the word whaur drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl; and as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the Scaurnose. Anxious to get him thoroughly soothed before they parted, Malcolm accompanied him. They walked a little way side by side in silence, the laird every now and then heaving his head like a fretted horse towards the sky, as if he sought to shake the heavy burden from his back, straighten out his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like his companion:
“Ay!” Malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime been thinking over the question, and was now assured upon it, “—the win’ maun come frae yont the stars; for dinna ye min’, laird? Ye was at the kirk last Sunday—wasna ye?”
The laird nodded an affirmative, and Malcolm went on.
“An’ didna ye hear the minister read frae the buik ’at hoo ilka guid an’ ilka perfit gift was frae abune, an’ cam frae the Father o’ lichts?”
“Father o’ lichts!” repeated the laird, and looked up at the stars. “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I hae nae father. I hae only a.... I hae only a wuman.”