“Gien ye gang on like that, the markis’ll hae ye drummed oot o’ the toon or twa days be ower,” said Malcolm.
“Wull he than?” she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. “Ye’ll be far ben wi’ the markis, nae doobt! An’ yon donnert auld deevil ye ca’ yer gran’father ’ill be fain eneuch to be drummer, I’ll sweir. Care’s my case!”
“My leddy, she’s ower ill-tongued for you to hearken till,” said Malcolm, turning to Florimel who stood in the door, white and trembling. “Jist gang doon, an’ tell my gran’father to sen’ the dog up. There’s surely some gait o’ garrin’ her haud her tongue!”
Mrs Catanach threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel.
“Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind!” replied Florimel. “For shame!”
“Hoots, my leddy!” returned Malcolm; “I only said it to try the effec’ o’ ’t. It seems no that ill.”
“Ye son o’ a deevil’s soo!” cried the woman; “I s’ hae amen’s o’ ye for this, gien I sud ro’st my ain hert to get it.”
“’Deed, but ye’re duin’ that fine a’ready! That foul brute o’ yours has gotten his arles (earnest) tu. I wonner what he thinks o sawmon-troot noo!—Eh, mem?”
“Have done, Malcolm,” said Florimel. “I am ashamed of you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house.”
“Hear till her!” cried Mrs Catanach contemptuously. “The woman!”