“You can go home now,” said his lordship. “I will see to this affair.” “But jist be canny middlin’ wi’ Mistress Catanach, my lord: she’s no mowse.” “What! you’re not afraid of an old woman?” “Deil a bit, my lord!--that is, I’m no feart at a dogfish or a rottan, but I wud tak tent an’ grip them the richt gait, for they hae teeth. Some fowk think Mistress Catanach has mair teeth nor she shaws.” “Well, if she’s too much for me, I’ll send for you,” said the marquis good-humouredly. “Ye canna get me sae easy, my lord: we’re efter the herrin’ noo.” “Well, well, we’ll see.” “But I wantit to tell ye anither thing my lord,” said Malcolm, as he followed the marquis down the stairs. “What is that?” “I cam upo’ anither plot--a mair serious ane, bein’ against a man ’at can ill haud aff o’ himsel’, an’ cud waur bide onything than yer lordship--the puir mad laird.” “Who’s he?” “Ilka body kens _him_, my lord! He’s son to the leddy o’ Kirkbyres.” “I remember _her_--an old flame of my brother’s.” “I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he’s her son.” “What about him, then?” They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts. “I don’t think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail,” said his lordship, seriously. “His mother must know best.” “I’m no sae sure o’ that, my lord! To say naething o’ the ill guideship, which micht hae garred a minister sweer, it wud be a cruelty naething short o’ deev’lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur like that, as innocent as he’s ill-shapit.” “He’s as God made him,” said the marquis. “He’s no as God _wull_ mak him,” returned Malcolm. “What do you mean by that?” asked the marquis. “It stan’s to rizzon, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “that what’s ill-made maun be made ower again. There’s a day comin’ whan a’ ’at’s wrang ’ll be set richt, ye ken.” “And the crooked made straight,” suggested the marquis laughing. “Doobtless, my lord. He’ll be strauchtit oot bonny that day,” said Malcolm with absolute seriousness. “Bah! You don’t think God cares about a misshapen lump of flesh like that!” exclaimed his lordship with contempt. “As muckle ’s aboot yersel’, or my leddy,” said Malcolm. “Gien he didna, he wadna be nae God ava’ (_at all_).” The marquis laughed again: he heard the words with his ears, but his heart was deaf to the thought they clothed; hence he took Malcolm’s earnestness for irreverence, and it amused him. “_You_’ve not got to set things right, anyhow,” he said. “You mind your own business.” “I’ll try, my lord: it’s the business o’ ilka man, whaur he can, to lowse the weichty birns, an’ lat the forfouchten gang free.[5]--Guid day to ye, my lord.” [5] Isa. lviii. (...to loose the weighty burdens and let the oppressed go free...) So saying the young fisherman turned, and left the marquis laughing in the hall. CHAPTER XXVII. LORD GERNON.