“You wouldn’t mind it much, if you waited asleep,” said Mrs Courthope.
“Can onybody sleep till sic a time o’ day as that?” exclaimed the youth.
“You must remember my lord doesn’t go to bed for hours after you, Malcolm.”
“An’ what can keep him up a’ that time? It’s no as gien he war efter the herrin’, an’ had the win’ an’ the watter an’ the netfu’s o’ waumlin craturs to haud him waukin’.”
“Oh! he reads and writes, and sometimes goes walking about the grounds after everybody else is in bed,” said Mrs Courthope, “he and his dog.”
“Well, I wad raither be up ear’,” said Malcolm; “a heap raither. I like fine to be oot i’ the quaiet o’ the mornin’ afore the sun’s up to set the din gaun; whan it’s a’ clear but no bricht—like the back o’ a bonny sawmon; an’ air an’ watter an’ a’ luiks as gien they war waitin’ for somethin’—quaiet, verra quaiet, but no content.”
Malcolm uttered this long speech, and went on with more like it, in the hope of affording time for the stormy waters of Duncan’s spirit to assuage. Nor was he disappointed; for, if there was a sound on the earth Duncan loved to hear, it was the voice of his boy; and by degrees the tempest sank to repose, the gathered glooms melted from his countenance, and the sunlight of a smile broke out.
“Hear to him!” he cried. “Her poy will be a creat pard some tay, and sing pefore ta Stuart kings, when they come pack to Holyrood!”
Mrs Courthope had enough of poetry in her to be pleased with Malcolm’s quiet enthusiasm, and spoke a kind word of sympathy with the old man’s delight as she rose to take her leave. Duncan rose also, and followed her to the door, making her a courtly bow, and that just as she turned away.
“It’ll pe a coot ’oman, Mistress Kertope,” he said as he came back; “and it’ll no pe to plame her for forgifing Glenlyon, for he did not kill her creat-crandmother. Put it’ll pe fery paad preeding to request her nainsel, Tuncan MacPhail, to be forgifing ta rascal. Only she’ll pe put a voman, and it’ll not pe knowing no petter to her.—You’ll be minding you’ll be firing ta cun at six o’clock exackly, Malcolm, for all she says; for my lord peing put shust come home to his property, it might be a fex to him if tere was any mistake so soon. Put inteed, I vonder he hasn’t been sending for old Tuncan to be gifing him a song or two on ta peeps; for he’ll pe hafing ta oceans of fery coot highland plood in his own feins; and his friend, ta Prince of Wales, who has no more rights to it than a maackerel fish, will pe wearing ta kilts at Holyrood. So mind you pe firing ta cun at sax, my son.”