Florimel heard all, but with the courage of her race.
“This is a fine position you have brought us into, MacPhail!” said his master, now thoroughly uneasy for his daughter’s sake.
“Nae waur nor I’ll tak ye oot o’, gien ye lippen to me, my lord, an’ no speyk a word.”
“If you tell them who papa is,” said Florimel, “they won’t do us any harm, surely!”
“I’m nane sae sure o’ that. They micht want to ripe ’s pooches (search his pockets), an’ my lord wad ill stan’ that, I’m thinkin’! Na, na. Jist stan’ ye back, my lord an’ my leddy, an’ dinna speyk a word. I s’ sattle them. They’re sic villains, there’s nae terms to be hauden wi’ them.”
His lordship was far from satisfied; but a light shining up into the crevice at the moment, gave powerful support to Malcolm’s authority: he took Florimel’s hand and drew her a little farther from the mouth of the cave.
“Don’t you wish we had Demon with us?” whispered the girl.
“I was thinking how I never went without a dagger in Venice,” said the marquis, “and never once had occasion to use it. Now I haven’t even a penknife about me! It looks very awkward.”
“Please don’t talk like that,” said Florimel. “Can’t you trust Malcolm, papa?”
“Oh, yes; perfectly!” he answered; but the tone was hardly up to the words.