Before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Florimel had recovered her spirits a little, and had even attempted a laugh at the ridiculousness of her late situation; but she continued very pale. They sat down beside the baskets—on some great stones, fallen from the building above. Because of his foot, they would not allow Malcolm to serve them, but told Mair and him to have their dinner near, and called the former when they wanted anything.
Lady Florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she shuddered: evidently she was haunted by the terror of her late position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis bethought himself of Malcolm’s promised tale, as a means of turning her thoughts aside from it. As soon, therefore, as they had finished their meal he called Malcolm, and told him they wanted his story.
“It’s some fearsome,” said Malcolm, looking anxiously at the pale face of Lady Florimel.
“Nonsense!” returned the marquis; for he thought, and perhaps rightly, that if such, it would only serve his purpose the better.
“I wad raither tell ’t i’ the gloamin’ roon’ a winter fire,” said Malcolm, with another anxious look at Lady Florimel.
“Do go on,” she said. “I want so much to hear it!”
“Go on,” said the marquis; and Malcolm, seating himself near them, began.
I need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut if he pleases.
“There was ance a great nobleman—like yersel’, my lord, only no sae douce—an’ he had a great followin’, and was thoucht muckle o’ in a’ the country, frae John o’ Groat’s to the Mull o’ Gallowa’. But he was terrible prood, an’ thoucht naebody was to compare wi’ him, nor onything ’at onybody had, to compare wi’ onything ’at he had. His horse war aye swifter, an’ his kye aye better milkers nor ither fowk’s; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan’ hills; nae gillies sae strang ’s his gillies; and nae castels sae weel biggit or sae auld as his! It may ha’ been a’ verra true, for onything I ken, or onything the story says to the contrar’; but it wasna heumble or Christi-an-like o’ him to be aye at it, ower an’ ower, aye gloryin’—as gien he had a’thing sae by-ord’nar’ ’cause he was by-ord’nar’ himsel’, an’ they a’ cam till him by the verra natur’ o’ things. There was but ae thing in which he was na fawvoured, and that was, that he had nae son to tak up what he left. But it maittered the less, that the teetle as weel ’s the lan’s, wad, as the tale tells, gang a’ the same till a lass-bairn—an’ a lass-bairn he had.”
“That is the case in the Lossie family,” said the marquis.