"We a' ken that," said Girnel.
"An' what mair du ye ken?" asked Blue Peter, with some anger at his interruption.
"Ow, naething."
"Weel, ye ken little," said Peter; and the rest laughed.
"I'm the markis o' Lossie," said Malcolm.
Every man but Peter laughed again: all took it for a joke precursive of some serious announcement. That which it would have least surprised them to hear would have been that he was a natural son of the late marquis.
"My name 's Ma'colm Colonsay," resumed Malcolm quietly, "an' I'm the saxt markis o' Lossie."
A dead silence followed, and in doubt, astonishment, bewilderment and vague awe, accompanied in the case of two or three by a strong inclination to laugh, with which they struggled, belief began. Always a curious observer of humanity, Malcolm calmly watched them. From discord of expression, most of their faces had grown idiotic. But after a few moments of stupefaction, first one, then another, turned his eyes upon Blue Peter, and perceiving that the matter was to him not only serious, but evidently no news, each began to come to his senses, the chaos within him slowly arranged itself, and his face gradually settled into an expression of sanity—the foolishness disappearing, while the wonder and pleasure remained.
"Ye maunna tak it ill, my lord," said Peter, "gien the laads be ta'en aback wi' the news. It's a some suddent shift o' the win', ye see, my lord."
"I wuss yer lordship weel," thereupon said one, and held out his hand.