“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly? I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled. “Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper? I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark on any undertaking it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or fee would be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed dangerously. “You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William sarcastically. “Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary commodity, but extremely elusive, and to show you that money has no terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some £300 are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong determination. “Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently, but Robert raised his hand with a stately gesture. “I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a steely glitter in his eye. “Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly. “Ye are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of that agreement, ye are scattering broadcast to every person that pleases your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and consequent sale of your collection.” “Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes not the slightest difference.” “’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns, ye must not do it again. I strictly forbid it.” “Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement. “Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man living can dictate to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I please. I will not barter an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise. You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his hand in angry dismissal. “But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback. “’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to collect my just dues.” “Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly. “I told ye to call to-morrow,” snarled Sir William, “and I’ll pay ye, then ye can gang your own gait. I have sought to give you advice, but ye were too haughty and independent, and ye wouldn’t listen, but ye will yet see and realize the bitter truth of my words, so go on in your career of folly and its inevitable ruin, for ye’ll soon be at the end of your tether, and may the devil claim ye for his own.” He stalked angrily away, muttering to himself, “Ye upstart, ye low-born peasant, I’ll humble ye yet!”