Apparently, however, there had been some dissension between them; for the old man sat in his corner strangely wrathful, his face in a glow, his head thrown back, his nostrils distended, and his eyelids working, as if his eyes were “poor dumb mouths,” like Caesar’s wounds, trying to speak.
“We are told in the New Testament to forgive our enemies, you know,” said Mrs Courthope, heedless of his entrance, but in a voice that seemed rather to plead than oppose.
“Inteet she will not be false to her shief and her clan,” retorted Duncan persistently. “She will not forgife Cawmil of Glenlyon.”
“But he’s dead long since, and we may at least hope he repented and was forgiven.”
“She’ll be hoping nothing of the kind, Mistress Kertope,” replied Duncan. “But if, as you say, God will be forgifing him,—which I do not belief,—let that pe enough for ta greedy blackguard. Sure, it matters but small whether poor Tuncan MacPhail will be forgifing him or not. Anyhow, he must do without it, for he shall not haf it. He is a tamn fillain and scounrel, and so she says,—with her respecs to you, Mistress Kertope.”
His sightless eyes flashed with indignation; and perceiving it was time to change the subject, the housekeeper turned to Malcolm.
“Could you bring me a nice mackerel or whiting for my lord’s breakfast to-morrow morning, Malcolm?” she said.
“Certaintly, mem. I s’ be wi ye in guid time wi’ the best the sea’ll gie me,” he answered.
“If I have the fish by nine o’clock, that will be early enough,” she returned.
“I wadna like to wait sae lang for my brakfast,” remarked Malcolm.