“Stand out of the way then,” said Malcolm, “I am coming.”
As he spoke, he took Kelpie a little round, keeping out of the way of the factor, who sat trembling with rage on his still excited animal, and sent her at the trench.
The Deevil’s Jock, as they called him, kept jumping, with his arms outspread, from one place to another, as if to receive Kelpie’s charge, but when he saw her actually coming, in short, quick bounds, straight to the trench, he was seized with terror, and, half-paralysed, slipped as he turned to flee, and rolled into the ditch, just in time to let Kelpie fly over his head. His comrades scampered right and left, and Malcolm, rather disgusted, took no notice of them.
A cart, loaded with their little all, the horse in the shafts, was standing at Peter’s door, but nobody was near it. Hardly was Malcolm well into the close, however, when out rushed Annie, and, heedless of Kelpie’s demonstrative repellence, reached up her hands like a child, caught him by the arm, while yet he was busied with his troublesome charge, drew him down towards her, and held him till, in spite of Kelpie, she had kissed him again and again.
“Eh, Ma’colm! eh, my lord!” she said, “ye ha’e saved my faith. I kenned ye wad come!”
“Haud yer tongue, Annie. I mauna be kenned,” said Malcolm.
“There’s nae danger. They’ll tak it for sweirin’,” answered Annie, laughing and crying both at once.
Out next came Blue Peter, his youngest child in his arms.
“Eh, Peter man! I’m blythe to see ye,” cried Malcolm. “Gie ’s a grup o’ yer honest han’.”
More than even the sight of his face beaming with pleasure, more than that grasp of the hand that would have squeezed the life out of a pole-cat, was the sound of the mother-tongue from his lips. The cloud of Peter’s long distrust broke and vanished, and the sky of his soul was straightway a celestial blue. He snatched his hand from Malcolm’s, walked back into the empty house, ran into the little closet off the kitchen, bolted the door, fell on his knees in the void little sanctuary that had of late been the scene of so many foiled attempts to lift up his heart, and poured out speechless thanksgiving to the God of all grace and consolation, who had given him back his friend, and that in the time of his sore need. So true was his heart in its love, that, giving thanks for his friend, he forgot that friend was the Marquis of Lossie, before whom his enemy was but as a snail in the sun.