On Malcolm’s arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears, and livid with suffocation. She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless.
“It’s Phemy, my lord—Blue Peter’s lassie ’at was tint,” said Malcolm.
“It begins to look serious,” said the marquis. “Mrs Catanach!— Mrs Courthope!”
He turned towards the door. Mrs Courthope entered, and a head or two peeped in after her. Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel.
“Where is the Catanach woman gone?” cried the marquis.
“Cone!” shouted the piper. “Cone! and her huspant will pe waiting to pe killing her! Och nan ochan!”
“Her husband!” echoed the marquis.
“Ach! she’ll not can pe helping it, my lort—no more till one will pe tead—and tat should pe ta woman, for she’ll pe a paad woman—ta worstest woman efer was married, my lort.”
“That’s saying a good deal,” returned the marquis.
“Not one worrt more as enough, my lort,” said Duncan. “She was only pe her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she’ll pe marry her? You would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she’ll was your wife, and you was knowing the tamned fox and padger she was pe. Ochone! and she tidn’t pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian[8] in her hose.”