“Never mind about that just now,” I demanded, gripping my preacher by the hand and forcing him with me out of the way of the passers-by, whose glance upon us would have seemed an indelicacy when we were discussing so precious a thing as my lady’s honour. “But I shall mind it,” insisted M’Iver, pursing his lips as much to check a hiccough as to express his determination. “It seems I am the only man dare take the liberty. Fie on ye! man, fie! you have not once gone to see the Provost or his daughter since I saw you last I dare not go myself for the sake of a very stupid blunder; but I met the old man coming up the way an hour ago, and he was asking what ailed you at them. Will I tell you something, Colin? The Provost’s a gleg man, but he’s not so gleg as his wife. The dame for me! say I, in every household, if it’s her daughter’s love-affairs she’s to keep an eye on.” “You know so much of the lady and her people,” said I, almost losing patience, “that it’s a wonder you never sought her for yourself.” He laughed. “Do you think so?” he said. “I have no doubt of the result; at least I would have had no doubt of it a week or two ago, if I had taken advantage of my chances.” Then he laughed anew. “I said the good-wife was gleg; I’m just as gleg myself.” This tipsy nonsense began to annoy me; but it was useless to try to check it, for every sentence uttered seemed a spark to his vanity. “It’s about Betty I want to speak,” I said. “And it’s very likely too; I would not need to be very gleg to see that She does not want to speak to me, however, or of me, as you’ll find out when once you see her. I am in her black books sure enough, for I saw her turn on the street not an hour ago to avoid me.” “She’ll not do that to MacLachlan,” I put in, glad of the opening, “unless she hears--and God forbid it--that the scamp lightlies her name at common fairs.” M’Iver drew himself up, stopped, and seemed to sober. “What’s this you’re telling me?” he asked, and I went over the incident on the quay. It was enough. It left him as hot as myself. He fingered at his coat-buttons and his cuffs, fastening and unfastening them; he played nervously with the hilt of his dirk; up would go his brows and down again like a bird upon his prey; his lips would tighten on his teeth, and all the time he was muttering in his pick of languages sentiments natural to the occasion. Gaelic is the poorest of tongues to swear in: it has only a hash of borrowed terms from Lowland Scots; but my cavalier was well able to make up the deficiency. “Quite so; very true and very comforting,” I said at last; “but what’s to be done?” “What’s to be done?” said he, with a start “Surely to God there’s no doubt about that!”