“Then the old man is not quiet?”
“There’s something no quaiet.”
“Nonsense! It’s all your imagination—depend on it.”
“I dinna think it.”
“What do you think, then? You’re not afraid of ghosts, surely?”
“No muckle. I hae naething mair upo’ my conscience nor I can bide i’ the deidest o’ the nicht.”
“Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience? A kind of moral delirium tremens—eh?”
“I dinna ken, my lord; but that’s the only kin’ o’ ghaist I wad be fleyed at—at least ’at I wad rin frae. I wad a heap raither hae a ghaist i’ my hoose nor ane far’er benn. An ill man, or wuman, like Mistress Catanach, for enstance, ’at’s a’ body, ’cep’ what o’ her ’s deevil,——”
“Nonsense!” said the marquis, angrily; but Malcolm went on:
“——maun be jist fu’ o’ ghaists! An’ for onything I ken, that’ll be what maks ghaists o’ themsels efter they’re deid, settin’ them waukin’, as they ca’ ’t. It’s full waur nor bein’ possessed wi’ deevils, an’ maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfortable.—But I wad hae yon door opent, my lord.”