"Tell him to go to hell. No, don't: set him down to a bottle of port and a great sponge-cake, and you needn't tell him to go to heaven, for he'll be there already. Why, Mrs. Courthope, the fellow isn't a gentleman. And yet all he cares for the cloth is that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him--as if anything in heaven, earth or hell could work that miracle!" In the middle of the night, as Malcolm sat by his bed, thinking him asleep, the marquis spoke suddenly. "You must go to Aberdeen to-morrow, Malcolm," he said. "Verra weel, my lord." "And bring Mr. Glennie, the lawyer, back with you." "Yes, my lord." "Go to bed, then." "I wad raither bide, my lord. I cudna sleep a wink for wantin' to be back aside ye." The marquis yielded, and Malcolm sat by him all the night through. He tossed about, would doze off and murmur strangely, then wake up and ask for brandy and water, yet be content with the lemonade Malcolm gave him. Next day he quarreled with every word that Mrs. Courthope uttered, kept forgetting he had sent Malcolm away, and was continually wanting him. His fits of pain were more severe, alternated with drowsiness, which deepened at times to stupor. It was late before Malcolm returned. He went instantly to his bedside. "Is Mr. Glennie with you?" asked his master feebly. "Yes, my lord." "Tell him to come here at once." When Malcolm returned with the lawyer the marquis directed him to place a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, provide everything necessary for writing and go to bed. CHAPTER LXIX. THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. Before Malcolm was awake his lordship had sent for him. When he re-entered the sick chamber Mr. Glennie had vanished, the table had been removed, and, instead of the radiance of the wax-lights, the cold gleam of a vapor-dimmed sun, with its sickly blue-white reflex from the widespread snow, filled the room. The marquis looked ghastly, but was sipping chocolate with a spoon. "What w'y are ye the day, my lord?" asked Malcolm. "Nearly well," he answered; "but those cursed carrion-crows are set upon killing me--damn their souls!" "We'll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin' awfu' gien ye gang on that gait, my lord," said Malcolm. The marquis laughed feebly. "An' what's mair," Malcolm continued, "I doobt they're some partic'lar aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonner, my lord." The marquis looked at him keenly. "You don't anticipate that inconvenience for me?" he said. "I'm pretty sure to have my billet where they're not so precise." "Dinna brak my hert, my lord," cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes.