“She ton’t care. She’ll fecht for ta Mackhai till she ties.”
“Leave the room, sir!” cried The Mackhai. “You meant well, but you have done a cruel and cowardly thing.”
Scoodrach hung his head, and stooped to pick up his bonnet by one of the strands of the worsted tuft, letting the soft flat cap spin slowly round as he watched it, and then he moved toward the door.
“Stop!” cried The Mackhai.
Scoodrach turned sharply and defiantly round, with his hot northern blood flushing to his temples.
“Ta Chief may kill her,” he cried; “but she shall na say she’s sorry.”
“Go and fetch Tavish and your father, sir, and never dare to address me again like that.”
Scoodrach slunk out of the room, and, as he turned to shut the door, his eyes met those of Kenneth, who shook his fist at him.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Scoodrach doubled his own, and looked defiance as the door was closed.
“Never dare to address me again like that!” muttered The Mackhai. “Poor lad! there is no fear.”