“Will I no lod her?” asked Malcolm, throwing down the ramrod, and approaching the swivel, as if to turn the muzzle of it again into the embrasure.
“Oh, yes! load her by all means. I don’t want to interfere with any of your customs. But if that is your object, the means, I fear, are inadequate.”
“It’s a comfort to hear that, my lord; for I canna aye be sure o’ my auld watch, an’ may weel be oot a five minutes or twa whiles. Sae, in future, seem’ it’s o’ sic sma’ consequence to yer lordship, I s’ jist let her aff whan it’s convenient. A feow minutes winna maitter muckle to the bailie-bodies.”
There was something in Malcolm’s address that pleased Lord Lossie —the mingling of respect and humour, probably—the frankness and composure, perhaps. He was not self-conscious enough to be shy, and was so free from design of any sort that he doubted the good will of no one.
“What’s your name?” asked the marquis abruptly.
“Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.”
“MacPhail? I heard the name this very day! Let me see.”
“My gran’father’s the blin’ piper, my lord.”
“Yes, yes. Tell him I shall want him at the House. I left my own piper at Ceanglas.”
“I’ll fess him wi’ me the morn, gien ye like, my lord, for I’ll be ower wi’ some fine troot or ither, gien I haena the waur luck, the morn’s mornin’: Mistress Courthope says she’ll be aye ready for ane to fry to yer lordship’s brakfast. But I’m thinkin’ that’ll be ower ear’ for ye to see him.”