“Gie me a richt, my lord, an’ I’ll du my best,” said Malcolm, at length breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?” growled the marquis, whose mood had altered.
“Gie me a legal richt, my lord, an’ see gien I dinna.”
“See what?”
“See gien I dinna luik weel efter my leddy.”
“How am I to see? I shall be dead and damned.”
“Please God, my lord, ye’ll be alive an’ weel—in a better place, if no here to luik efter my leddy yersel’.”
“Oh, I dare say!” muttered the marquis.
“But ye’ll hearken to the doctors, my lord,” Malcolm went on, “an’ no dee wantin’ time to consider o’ ’t.”
“Yes, yes; to-morrow I’ll have another talk with them. We’ll see about it. There’s time enough yet. They’re all cox-combs—every one of them. They never give a patient the least credit for common sense.”