“She wass afrait, my lort and chentlemans,” he said, with a quavering voice, “tat her pag will pe near her latter end; put she pelieved she would pe living peyond her nainsel, my chentlemans.” He ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and were prosecuting an inquiry: they ran along the smooth edges of the cut, and detected treachery. He gave a cry like that of a wounded animal, flung his pipes from him, and sprang to his feet, but forgetting a step below him, staggered forward a few paces and fell heavily. That instant Malcolm entered the room. He hurried in consternation to his assistance. When he had helped him up and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on his boy’s bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept aloud. “Malcolm, my son,” he sobbed, “Tuncan is wronged in ta halls of ta strancher; tey’ll haf stapped his pest friend to ta heart, and och hone! och hone! she’ll pe aall too plint to take fencheance. Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. She’ll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch is no more.” His quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. Malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things were as his grandfather had divined, spoke indignantly: “Ye oucht to tak shame to ca’ yersels gentlefowk, an’ play a puir blin’ man, wha was doin’ his best to please ye, sic an ill-faured trick.” As he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, but Malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grandfather, eager to persuade him to go home. They had no intention of letting him off yet, however. Acquainted--probably through his gamekeeper, who laid himself out to amuse his master--with the piper’s peculiar antipathies, Lord Lossie now took up the game. “It was too bad of you, Campbell,” he said, “to play the good old man such a dog’s trick.” At the word _Campbell_, the piper shook off his grandson, and sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every inch of his body trembling with rage. “She might haf known,” he screamed, half-choking, “that a cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it!” He stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the earth in contempt of its helplessness, or to fling it headlong on his foes. For that one moment silence filled the room. “You needn’t attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, Glenlyon,” said the marquis.