“I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm,” said Lady Florimel.
“Do,” said the marquis “the place is not consecrated yet.”
“Did ye ever hear the tale o’ the auld warlock, my leddy?” asked Malcolm. “—Only, my lord kens ’t!” he added.
“I don’t,” said Lady Florimel.
“It’s great nonsense,” said the marquis.
“Do let us have it, papa.”
“Very well. I don’t mind hearing it again.” He wanted to see how Malcolm would embellish it.
“It seems to me,” said Malcolm, “that this ane aboot Lossie Hoose an’ yon ane aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but twa stalks frae the same rute. Ony gate, this ane aboot the warlock maun be the auldest o’ the twa. Ye s’ hae ’t sic ’s I hae ’t mysel’. Mistress Coorthoup taul’ ’t to me.”
It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however, that he recounted the tale of Lord Gernon.
As the last words left his lips, Lady Florimel gave a startled cry, seized him by the arm, and crept close to him. The marquis jumped to his feet, knocked his head against the rock, uttered an oath, and sat down again.