As she spoke, she laid her hand on the basket, but Malcolm drew back, and turned away towards the gate.
“Lord safe us!” she cried, with a yelling laugh; “ye’re no feared at an auld wife like me?”
“I dinna ken; maybe ay an’ maybe no—I wadna say. But I dinna want to hae onything to du wi’ ye, mem.”
“Ma’colm MacPhail,” said Mrs Catanach, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, while every trace of laughter vanished from her countenance, “ye hae had mair to du wi’ me nor ye ken, an’ aiblins ye’ll hae mair yet nor ye can weel help. Sae caw canny, my man.”
“Ye may hae the layin’ o’ me oot,” said Malcolm, “but it sanna be wi’ my wull; an’ gien I hae ony life left i’ me, I s’ gie ye a fleg (fright).”
“Ye may get a war yersel’: I hae frichtit the deid afore noo. Sae gang yer wa’s to Mistress Coorthoup, wi’ a flech (flea) i’ yer lug (ear). I wuss ye luck—sic luck as I wad wuss ye!—”
Her last words sounded so like a curse, that to overcome a cauld creep, Malcolm had to force a laugh.
The cook at the House bought all his fish, for they had had none for the last few days, because of the storm; and he was turning to go home by the river side, when he heard a tap on a window, and saw Mrs Courthope beckoning him to another door.
“His lordship desired me to send you to him, Malcolm, the next time you called,” she said.
“Weel, mem, here I am,” answered the youth.