“That’s as muckle as say I wad come to be a yerl some day, sae be I didna dee upo’ the ro’d?” “Yes--that’s what it means.” “An’ a yerl’s neist door till a markis--isna he?” “Yes--he’s in the next lower rank.” “Lower?--Ay!--No that muckle, maybe?” “No,” said Lady Florimel consequentially; “the difference is not so great as to prevent their meeting on a level of courtesy.” “I dinna freely ken what that means; but gien ’t be yer leddyship’s wull to mak a yerl o’ me, I’m no to raise ony objections.” He uttered it definitively, and stood silent. “Well?” said the girl. “What’s yer wull, my leddy?” returned Malcolm, as if roused from a reverie. “Where’s your answer?” “I said I wad be a yerl to please yer leddyship.--I wad be a flunky for the same rizzon, gien ’t was to wait upo’ yersel’ an’ nae ither.” “I ask you,” said Florimel, more imperiously than ever, “what is the first thing you would do, if you found yourself no longer a fisherman, but the son of an earl?” “But it maun be that I _was_ a fisherman--to the en’ o’ a’ creation, my leddy.” “You refuse to answer my question?” “By no means, my leddy, gien ye wull hae an answer.” “I _will_ have an answer.” “Gien ye wull hae ’t than---- But--” “No _buts_, but an answer!” “Weel--it’s yer ain wyte, my leddy!--I wad jist gang doon upo’ my k-nees, whaur I stude afore ye, and tell ye a heap o’ things ’at maybe by that time ye wad ken weel eneuch a’ready.” “What would you tell me?” “I wad tell ye ’at yer een war like the verra leme o’ the levin (_brightness of the lightning_) itsel’; yer cheek like a white rose i’ the licht frae a reid ane; yer hair jist the saft lattin’ gang o’ his han’s whan the Maker cud du nae mair; yer mou’ jist fashioned to drive fowk daft ’at daurna come nearer nor luik at it; an’ for yer shape, it was like naething in natur’ but itsel’.--Ye _wad_ hae ’t my leddy!” he added apologetically--and well he might, for Lady Florimel’s cheek had flushed, and her eye had been darting fire long before he got to the end of his Celtic outpouring. Whether she was really angry or not, she had no difficulty in making Malcolm believe she was. She rose from her chair--though not until he had ended--swept half-way to the door, then turned upon him with a flash. “How _dare_ you?” she said, her breed well obeying the call of the game. “I’m verra sorry, my leddy,” faltered Malcolm, trying to steady himself against a strange trembling that had laid hold upon him, “--but ye maun alloo it was a’ yer ain wyte.” “Do you dare to say _I_ encouraged you to talk such stuff to me?” “Ye did gar me, my leddy.” Florimel turned and undulated from the room, leaving the poor fellow like a statue in the middle of it, with the books all turning their backs upon him. “Noo,” he said to himself, “she’s aff to tell her father, and there’ll be a bonny bane to pyke atween him an’ me! But haith! I’ll jist tell him the trowth o’ ’t, an’ syne he can mak a kirk an’ a mill o’ ’t, gien he likes.”