“How much is there of this cursed hole?” asked the marquis; rubbing the top of his head.
“A heap,” answered Malcolm. “The grun’ gangs doon like a brae ahin’ ’s, intill a——”
“You don’t mean right behind us?” cried the marquis.
“Nae—jist closs, my lord. We’re sittin’ i’ the mou’ o’ ’t, like, wi’ the thrapple (throat) o’ ’t ahin’ ’s, an’ a muckle stamach ayont that.”
“I hope there’s no danger,” said the marquis.
“Nane ’at I ken o’.”
“No water at the bottom?”
“Nane, my lord—that is, naething but a bonny spring i’ the rock-side.”
“Come away, papa!” cried Florimel. “I don’t like it. I’ve had enough of this kind of thing.”
“Nonsense!” said the marquis, still rubbing his head.