“Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, as the youth entered, “how is that foot of yours getting on?”
“Brawly, my lord; there’s naething muckle the maitter wi’ hit, or me aither, noo ’at we’re up. But I was jist nearhan’ deid o’ ower muckle bed.”
“Hadn’t you better come down out of that cockloft?” said the marquis, dropping his eyes.
“Na, my lord; I dinna care aboot pairtin’ wi’ my neebour yet.”
“What neighbour?”
“Ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be ’at hauds a reemish (romage) there.”
“What! is he troublesome next?
“Ow, na! I’m no thinkin’ ’t; but ’deed I dinna ken, my lord!” said Malcolm.
“What do you mean, then?”
“Gien yer lordship wad aloo me to force yon door, I wad be better able to tell ye.”