“I tell you to leave the house,” Florimel shrieked, beside herself with fury, yet pale as marble with a growing terror for which she could ill have accounted.
“Florimel!” said Malcolm solemnly, calling his sister by name for the first time.
“You insolent wretch!” she cried, panting. “What right have you, if you be, as you say, my base-born brother, to call me by my name.”
“Florimel!” repeated Malcolm, and the voice was like the voice of her father, “I have done what I could to serve you.”
“And I want no more such service!” she returned, beginning to tremble.
“But you have driven me almost to extremities,” he went on, heedless of her interruption. “Beware of doing so quite.”
“Will nobody take pity on me?” said Florimel, and looked round imploringly. Then, finding herself ready to burst into tears, she gathered all her pride, and stepping up to Malcolm, looked him in the face, and said,
“Pray, sir! is this house yours or mine?”
“Mine,” answered Malcolm. “I am the Marquis of Lossie, and while I am your elder brother and the head of the family, you shall never with my consent marry that base man—a man it would blast me to the soul to call brother.”
Liftore uttered a fierce imprecation.