“Gang an’ fess yer gun,” said Malcolm, “an’ gien ye fin’ me waitin’ for ye, ye can lat at me.”
The factor uttered a horrible imprecation on himself if he did not make him pay dearly for his behaviour.
“Hoots, sir! Be asham’t o’ yersel’. Gang hame to the mistress, an’ I s’ be up the morn’s mornin’ for my wauges.”
“If ye set foot on the grounds again, I’ll set every dog in the place upon you.”
Malcolm laughed.
“Gien I was to turn the order the ither gait, wad they min’ you or me, div ye think, Maister Crathie?”
“Give me that key, and go about your business.”
“Na, na, sir! What my lord gae me I s’ keep—for a’ the factors atween this an’ the Land’s En’,” returned Malcolm. “An’ for lea’in’ the place, gien I be na in your service, Maister Crathie, I’m nae un’er your orders. I’ll gang whan it suits me. An’ mair yet, ye s’ gang oot o’ this first, or I s’ gar ye, an that ye’ll see.”
It was a violent proceeding, but for a matter of manners he was not going to risk what of her good name poor Lizzy had left: like the books of the Sibyl, that grew in value. He made, however, but one threatful stride towards the factor, for the great man turned and fled.
The moment he was out of sight, Malcolm unlocked the door, led Lizzy out, and brought her through the tunnel to the sands. There he left her, and set out for Scaurnose.