“Mind that fellow,” cried the marquis from above.
Malcolm turned quickly, and saw the gleam of a knife in the grasp of his old enemy, who had risen, and crept behind him to the recess. He flung the lantern in his face, following it with a blow in which were concentrated all the weight and energy of his frame. The man went down again heavily, and Malcolm instantly trampled all their lanterns to pieces.
“Noo,” he said to himself, “they winna ken but it’s the laird an’ Phemy wi’ me!”
Then turning, and taking Florimel by the arm, he hurried her out of the cave, followed by the marquis.
They emerged in the liquid darkness of a starry night. Lady Florimel clung to both her father and Malcolm. It was a rough way for some little distance, but at length they reached the hard wet sand, and the marquis would have stopped to take breath; but Malcolm was uneasy, and hurried them on.
“What are you frightened at now?” asked his lordship.
“Naething,” answered Malcolm, adding to himself however, “I’m fleyt at naethin’—I’m fleyt for the laird.”
As they approached the tunnel, he fell behind.
“Why don’t you come on?” said his lordship.
“I’m gaein’ back, noo ’at ye’re safe,” said Malcolm.