“Very well,” said the Antiquary, “I will betake me thither.”
“Now, Monkbarns,” said his sister, on his entering the parlour, “ye maunna be angry.”
“My dear uncle!” began Miss M’Intyre.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” said Oldbuck, in alarm of some impending bad news, and arguing upon the supplicating tone of the ladies, as a fortress apprehends an attack from the very first flourish of the trumpet which announces the summons—“what’s all this?—what do you bespeak my patience for?”
“No particular matter, I should hope, sir,” said Hector, who, with his arm in a sling, was seated at the breakfast table;—“however, whatever it may amount to I am answerable for it, as I am for much more trouble that I have occasioned, and for which I have little more than thanks to offer.”
“No, no! heartily welcome, heartily welcome—only let it be a warning to you,” said the Antiquary, “against your fits of anger, which is a short madness—Ira furor brevis—but what is this new disaster?”
“My dog, sir, has unfortunately thrown down”—
“If it please Heaven, not the lachrymatory from Clochnaben!” interjected Oldbuck.
“Indeed, uncle,” said the young lady, “I am afraid—it was that which stood upon the sideboard—the poor thing only meant to eat the pat of fresh butter.”
“In which she has fully succeeded, I presume, for I see that on the table is salted. But that is nothing—my lachrymatory, the main pillar of my theory on which I rested to show, in despite of the ignorant obstinacy of Mac-Cribb, that the Romans had passed the defiles of these mountains, and left behind them traces of their arts and arms, is gone—annihilated—reduced to such fragments as might be the shreds of a broken-flowerpot!