“He’s as God made him,” said the marquis.
“He’s no as God wull mak him,” returned Malcolm.
“What do you mean by that?” asked the marquis.
“It stan’s to rizzon, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “that what’s ill-made maun be made ower again. There’s a day comin’ whan a’ ’at’s wrang ’ll be set richt, ye ken.”
“And the crooked made straight,” suggested the marquis laughing.
“Doobtless, my lord. He’ll be strauchtit oot bonny that day,” said Malcolm with absolute seriousness.
“Bah! You don’t think God cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!” exclaimed his lordship with contempt.
“As muckle ’s aboot yersel’, or my leddy,” said Malcolm. “Gien he didna, he wadna be nae God ava’ (at all).”
The marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took Malcolm’s earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him.
“You’ve not got to set things right, anyhow,” he said. “You mind your own business.”