"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.
"If you dare give breath to another such word in my sister's presence I will have you gagged," said Malcolm.—"If my sister marries him," he continued, turning again to Florimel, "not one shilling shall she take with her beyond what she may happen to have in her purse at the moment. She is in my power, and I will use it to the utmost to protect her from that man."
"Proof!" cried Liftore sullenly. But Florimel gazed with pale dilated eyes in the face of the speaker. She knew his words were true. Her soul assured her of it.
"To my sister," answered Malcolm, "I will give all the proof she may please to require—to Lord Liftore I will not even repeat my assertion: to him I will give no shadow of proof. I will but cast him out of my house.—Stoat, order horses for Lady Bellair."