“Take away your foot and I’ll go and see,” said the man.
“No. You open the door,” returned Malcolm.
The man’s answer was an attempt to kick his foot out of the doorway. If he were to let in a tramp, what would the butler say?
But thereupon Malcolm set his port-vent to his mouth, rapidly filled his bag, while the man stared as if it were a petard with which he was about to blow the door to shivers, and then sent from the instrument such a shriek, as it galloped off into the Lossie Gathering, that involuntarily his adversary pressed both hands to his ears. With a sudden application of his knee Malcolm sent the door wide, and entered the hall, with his pipes in full cry. The house resounded with their yell—but only for one moment. For down the stair, like bolt from catapult, came Demon, Florimel’s huge Irish stag-hound, and springing on Malcolm, put an instant end to his music. The footman laughed with exultation, expecting to see him torn to pieces. But when instead he saw the fierce animal, a foot on each of his shoulders, licking Malcolm’s face with long fiery tongue, he began to doubt.
“The dog knows you,” he said sulkily.
“So shall you, before long,” returned Malcolm. “Was it my fault that I made the mistake of looking for civility from you? One word to the dog, and he has you by the throat.”
“I’ll go and fetch Wallis,” said the man, and closing the door, left the hall.
Now this Wallis had been a fellow-servant of Malcolm’s at Lossie House, but he did not know that he had gone with Lady Bellair when she took Florimel away: almost everyone had left at the same time. He was now glad indeed to learn that there was one amongst the servants who knew him.
Wallis presently made his appearance, with a dish in his hands, on his way to the dining-room, from which came the confused noises of the feast.
“You’ll be come up to wait on Lady Lossie,” he said. “I haven’t a moment to speak to you now, for we’re at dinner, and there’s a party.”