“Unfeeling woman,” said he; “but Heaven may yet restore that son to protect the grey hairs of his old father, and lay his head in an honoured grave.”
The old man’s spirits were quite gone; he cried like a child; his lady mimicked him, and at this his daughter and servants raised a laugh.
“Inhuman wretches!” said Duncan, starting up and pushing them aside, “thus to mock the feelings of an old man, even although he were not the lord and master of you all. But, take notice, the individual among you all that dares to offer such another insult to him, I’ll roast on that fire.”
The old man clung to Duncan, and looked him ruefully in the face.
“You impudent, beggarly vagabond!” said the lady, “do you know to whom you speak? Servants, turn that wretch out of the house, and hunt him with all the dogs in the kennel.”
“Softly, softly, good lady,” said Duncan, “take care that I do not turn you out of the house.”
“Alas, good youth!” said the old laird; “you little know what you are about; for mercy’s sake, forbear. You are brewing vengeance both for yourself and me.”
“Fear not,” said Duncan, “I will protect you with my life.”
“Pray, may I ask you what is your name?” said the old man, still looking earnestly at him.
“That you may,” replied Duncan; “no man has so good a right to ask anything of me as you have—I am Duncan Campbell, your own son.”