Malcolm was greatly distressed. He had a regard for the laird far beyond pity, and could not bear the thought of having inadvertently caused him pain. But he dared not follow him, for that would be but to heighten the anguish of the tortured mind and the suffering of the sickly frame; for, when pursued, he would accomplish a short distance at an incredible speed, then drop suddenly and lie like one dead. Malcolm, therefore, threw off his heavy boots, and starting at full speed along the other side of the dune, made for the bored craig; his object being to outrun the laird without being seen by him, and so, doubling the rock, return with leisurely steps, and meet him. Sweetly the west wind whistled about his head as he ran. In a few moments he had rounded the rock, towards which the laird was still running, but now more slowly. The tide was high and came near its foot, leaving but a few yards of passage between, in which space they approached each other, Malcolm with sauntering step as if strolling homewards. Lifting his bonnet, a token of respect he never omitted when he met the mad laird, he stood aside in the narrow way. Mr Stewart stopped abruptly, took his fingers from his ears, and stared in perplexity. “It’s a richt bonny nicht, laird,” said Malcolm. The poor fellow looked hurriedly behind him, then stared again, then made gestures backward, and next pointed at Malcolm with rapid pokes of his forefinger. Bewilderment had brought on the impediment in his speech, and all Malcolm could distinguish in the babbling efforts at utterance which followed, were the words,--“Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them! Twa o’ them!” often and hurriedly repeated. “It’s a fine, saft-sleekit win’, laird,” said Malcolm, as if they were meeting for the first time that night. “I think it maun come frae the blue there, ayont the stars. There’s a heap o’ wonnerfu’ things there, they tell me; an’ whiles a strokin win’ an’ whiles a rosy smell, an’ whiles a bricht licht, an’ whiles, they say, an auld yearnin’ sang ’ill brak oot, an’ wanner awa doon, an’ gang flittin’ an’ fleein’ amang the sair herts o’ the men an’ women fowk ’at canna get things putten richt.” “I think there _are_ two fools of them!” said the marquis, referring to the words of the laird. He was seated with Lady Florimel on the town side of the rock, hidden from them by one sharp corner. They had seen the mad laird coming, and had recognised Malcolm’s voice. “I dinna ken _whaur_ I come frae,” burst from the laird, the word _whaur_ drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl; and as he spoke he moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the Scaurnose. Anxious to get him thoroughly soothed before they parted, Malcolm accompanied him. They walked a little way side by side in silence, the laird every now and then heaving his head like a fretted horse towards the sky, as if he sought to shake the heavy burden from his back, straighten out his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like his companion: