But bethinking himself that his grandfather would not go to bed until he went back, also that the laird was in no danger, as the tide was now receding, he resolved to go and get the old man to bed, and then return. For somehow he felt in his heart that he ought not to leave him alone. He could not enter into his strife to aid him, or come near him in any closer way than watching by his side until his morning dawned, or at least the waters of his flood assuaged, yet what he could he must: he would wake with him in his conflict. He rose and ran for the bored craig, through which lay the straight line to his abandoned boots. As he approached the rock, he heard the voices of Lord Lossie and Lady Florimel, who, although the one had not yet verified her being, the other had almost ruined his, were nevertheless enjoying the same thing, the sweetness of the night, together. Not hearing Malcolm’s approach, they went on talking, and as he was passing swiftly through the bore, he heard these words from the marquis,-- “The world’s an ill-baked cake, Flory, and all that a--woman, at least, can do, is to cut as large a piece of it as possible, for immediate use.” The remark being a general one, Malcolm cannot be much blamed if he stood with one foot lifted to hear Florimel’s reply. “If it’s an ill-baked one, papa,” she returned, “I think it would be better to cut as small a piece of it as will serve for immediate use.” Malcolm was delighted with her answer, never thinking whether it came from her head or her heart, for the two were at one in himself. As soon as he appeared on the other side of the rock, the marquis challenged him: “Who goes there?” he said. “Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.” “You rascal!” said his lordship, good-humouredly; “you’ve been listening!” “No muckle, my lord. I heard but a word a-piece. An’ I maun say my leddy had the best o’ the loagic.” “My lady generally has, I suspect,” laughed the marquis. “How long have you been in the rock there?” “No ae meenute, my lord. I flang aff my butes to rin efter a freen’, an’ that’s hoo ye didna hear me come up. I’m gaein’ efter _them_ noo, to gang hame i’ them. Guid nicht, my lord. Guid nicht, my leddy.” He turned and pursued his way; but Florimel’s face, glimmering through the night, went with him as he ran. He told his grandfather how he had left the mad laird lying on his face, on the sands between the bored craig and the rocks of the promontory, and said he would like to go back to him. “He’ll be hafing a fit, poor man,” said Duncan. “Yes, my son, you must co to him and to your pest for him. After such an honour as we’fe had this day, we mustn’t pe forgetting our poor neighpours. Will you pe taking to him a trop of uisgebeatha?” “He taks naething o’ that kin’,” said Malcolm.