The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath hissing through his clenched teeth clutched her, and down they went together in the passage, the piper undermost. He had her by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and, kneeling on his chest, kept him down with a vigor of hostile effort that drew the very picture of murder. It lasted but a moment, however, for the old man, spurred by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose with the blood streaming from his eyes, just as the marquis came round the near end of the passage, followed by Mrs. Courthope, the butler, Stoat and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and, signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to the mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs. Catanach's throat. "Ye blin' abortion o' Sawtan's soo!" she cried, "didna I tak ye to du wi' ye as I likit? An' that deil's tripe ye ca' yer oye (_grandson_)--He! he! _him_ yer gran'son! He's naething but ane o' yer hatit Cawm'ells!" "A teanga a' diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag dènamh breug (O tongue of the great devil! thou art making a lie)," screamed Duncan, speaking for the first time. "God lay me deid i' my sins gien he be onything but a bastard Cawm'ell!" she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. "Yer dautit (_petted_) Ma'colm's naething but the dyke-side brat o' the late Grizel Cawm'ell, 'at the fowk tuik for a sant 'cause she grat an' said naething. I laid the Cawm'ell pup i' yer boody (_scarecrow_) airms wi' my ain han's, upo' the tap o' yer curst scraighin' bagpipes 'at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. Na, ye wad nane o' me! But I ga'e ye a Cawm'ell bairn to yer hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (_spider_)-leggit, worm-aten idiot!" A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed another from Mrs. Catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh in consonant sounds. The marquis stepped into the room. "What is the meaning of all this?" he said with dignity. The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The old piper drew himself up to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Catanach, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. The marquis cast on her a searching and significant look. "See here, my lord," said Malcolm. Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. At the same moment Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished. On Malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation. She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless. "It's Phemy, my lord--Blue Peter's lassie, 'at was tint," said Malcolm. "It begins to look serious," said the marquis.--"Mrs. Catanach! Mrs. Courthope!"