“What do you mean, you rascal, by daring to insult me in my own house? Damn your insolent foolery!”
“A trick! a most palpable trick! and an exceedingly silly one!” pronounced Fergus, who had now read the paper; “quite as foolish as unjustifiable! Everybody knows Glashruach is the property of Major Culsalmon!”—Here the laird sought the relief of another oath or two.—“I entreat you to moderate your anger, my dear sir,” Fergus resumed. “The thing is hardly worth so much indignation. Some animal has been playing the poor fellow an ill-natured trick—putting him up to it for the sake of a vile practical joke. It is exceedingly provoking, but you must forgive him. He is hardly to blame, scarcely accountable, under the natural circumstances.—Get away with you,” he added, addressing Gibbie across the table. “Make haste before worse comes of it. You have been made a fool of.”
When Fergus began to speak, the laird turned, and while he spoke stared at him with lack-lustre yet gleaming eyes, until he addressed Gibbie, when he turned on him again as fiercely as before. Poor Gibbie stood shaking his head, smiling, and making eager signs with hands and arms; but in the laird’s condition of both heart and brain he might well forget and fail to be reminded that Gibbie was dumb.
“Why don’t you speak, you fool?” he cried. “Get out and don’t stand making faces there. Be off with you, or I will knock you down with a decanter.”
Gibbie pointed to the paper, which lay before Fergus, and placed a hand first on his lips, then on his heart.
“Damn your mummery!” said the laird, choking with rage. “Go away, or, by God! I will break your head.”
Fergus at this rose and came round the table to get between them. But the laird caught up a pair of nutcrackers, and threw it at Gibbie. It struck him on the forehead, and the blood spirted from the wound. He staggered backwards. Fergus seized the laird’s arm, and sought to pacify him.
Her father’s loud tones had reached Ginevra in her room; she ran down, and that instant entered: Gibbie all but fell into her arms. The moment’s support she gave him, and the look of loving terror she cast in his face, restored him; and he was again firm on his feet, pressing her handkerchief to his forehead, when Fergus, leaving the laird, advanced with the pacific intention of getting him safe from the house. Ginevra stepped between them. Her father’s rage thereupon broke loose quite, and was madness. He seized hold of her with violence, and dragged her from the room. Fergus laid hands upon Gibbie more gently, and half would have forced, half persuaded him to go. A cry came from Ginevra: refusing to be sent to her room before Gibbie was in safety, her father struck her. Gibbie would have darted to her help. Fergus held him fast, but knew nothing of Gibbie’s strength, and the next moment found himself on his back upon the table, amidst the crash of wineglasses and china. Having locked the door, Gibbie sprung to the laird, who was trying to drag his daughter, now hardly resisting, up the first steps of the stair, took him round the waist from behind, swept him to the other room, and there locked him up also. He then returned to Ginevra where she lay motionless on the stair, lifted her in his arms, and carried her out of the house, nor stopped until, having reached the farther end of the street, he turned the corner of it into another equally quiet.
The laird and Fergus, when they were released by the girl from their respective prisons and found that the enemy was gone, imagined that Ginevra had retired again to her room; and what they did after is not interesting.
Under a dull smoky oil-lamp Gibbie stopped. He knew by the tightening of her arms that Ginevra was coming to herself.