‘After your lordship,’ said Peebles suavely, and flowed on before the angry old gentleman could stop him. ‘You say your lot’s a hard one? You complain that Providence is punishing you too severely? Man, ye are just like a spoiled child, that sets a house afire in his wantonness, and then thinks he’s badly treated because he gets his fingers burnt. Your lot a hard one! What about the lot o’ the innocent lass that trusted ye, and that ye ruined and slew? What about the bright bonny lad that God put it into his mither’s heart to send here t’ ye, that should hae been a sound o’ peace in your ears, a light unto your eyes, a sermon to your understanding, ilka day this eighteen years bygone? What about his shame and anguish, his loss of respect and belief in all his kind, because you, the one man he loved and trusted most, turned to base metal in his sight? And ye are hardly treated! Gin ye had your deserts, Henry Conseltine, Lord Kilpatrick, ye’d be on the treadmill at this minute. There’s many an honester man than you that’s praying God this minute for bread and water to stay his carnal pangs, while ye sit here, full o’ meat, and puffed out wi’ idleness. Ill treated! Ma certie!’ cried the old man, with a fall from an almost Biblical solemnity of phrase to latter-day colloquialism which would have seemed ludicrous to any third person. ‘Ye’re no blate! Perhaps ye’d like a step up in the peerage for havin’ ruined an honest lassie and broken a poor lad’s heart?’ ‘Upon my soul,’ said Kilpatrick, twisting in his chair, ‘I don’t know why I stand your infernal impudence.’ ‘For the same reason,’ returned Peebles, ‘that you stand the infernal impudence o’ your ain conscience. Ye’ve been trying to drug and bully _that_ into quiet a’ these years, and ye’ve no succeeded yet, and ne’er will, the Lord be praised! Ye ask,’ he continued, ‘if Desmond’s on his high horse yet? Ay, is he--on a higher horse than ever.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Kilpatrick. ‘Circumstances have come to light this last day or twa,’ said Peebles, ‘that put a new complexion on a’ this business.’ ‘What circumstances?’ asked his lordship wonderingly. ‘Strange circumstances,’ said Peebles. ‘I’ve news for ye that’ll mak’ your ears to tingle, I’m thinking.’ ‘Curse you!’ cried the old man; ‘can’t you speak out, instead of jibbering and jabbering in this fashion, you old death’s-head!’ ‘Ye’re a foul-mouthed person, Lord Kilpatrick,’ said Peebles dryly, ‘but let that flea stick to the wall. I’ve news for ye that it will tak’ courage to listen to.’ ‘Man alive!’ cried Kilpatrick; ‘for the love of God don’t waste your time and my patience in this fashion! What is your news?’ ‘Just this,’ said the old man slowly and deliberately: ‘The marriage with Moya Macartney, that ye believed to be a sham marriage--the more shame to ye for it--was no’ a sham at all, but as good a marriage as was ever made between man and maid on this earth, and as binding!’