"What w'y are ye the day, my lord?" asked Malcolm.
"Nearly well," he answered; "but those cursed carrion-crows are set upon killing me—damn their souls!"
"We'll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin' awfu' gien ye gang on that gait, my lord," said Malcolm.
The marquis laughed feebly.
"An' what's mair," Malcolm continued, "I doobt they're some partic'lar aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonner, my lord."
The marquis looked at him keenly. "You don't anticipate that inconvenience for me?" he said. "I'm pretty sure to have my billet where they're not so precise."
"Dinna brak my hert, my lord," cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes.
"I should be sorry to hurt you, Malcalm," rejoined the marquis gently, almost tenderly. "I won't go there if I can help it—I shouldn't like to break any more hearts—but how the devil am I to keep out of it? Besides, there are people up there I don't want to meet: I have no fancy for being made ashamed of myself. The fact is, I'm not fit for such company, and I don't believe there is any such place. But if there be, I trust in God there isn't any other, or it will go badly with your poor master, Malcolm. It doesn't look like true—now does it? Only such a multitude of things I thought I had done with for ever keep coming up and grinning at me. It nearly drives me mad, Malcolm; and I would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool bow and a sharp face-about."
"Wadna ye hae a word wi' somebody 'at kens, my lord?" said Malcolm, scarcely able to reply.
"No," answered the marquis fiercely. "That Cairns is a fool."