“Read the history, and you’ll see.” “Ow! I ken something aboot the politics o’ the time, an’ I’m no sayin’ they war that wrang to tak the heid frae him, but what for sud Milton hate the man efter the king was deid?” “Because he didn’t think the king dead enough, I suppose.” “I see!--an’ they war settin’ him up for a sant. Still he had a richt to fair play.--Jist hearken, my lord.” So saying, Malcolm reopened the volume, and read the well-known passage, in the first chapter, in which Milton censures the king as guilty of utter irreverence, because of his adoption of the prayer of Pamela in the Arcadia. “Noo, my lord,” he said, half-closing the book, “what wad ye expec’ to come upo’, efter sic a denunciation as that, but some awfu’ haithenish thing? Weel, jist hearken again, for here’s the verra prayer itsel’ in a futnote.” His lordship had thrown himself into a chair, had crossed one leg over the other, and was now stroking its knee. “Noo, my lord,” said Malcolm again, as he concluded, “what think ye o’ the jeedgment passed?” “Really I have no opinion to give about it,” answered the marquis. “I’m no theologian. I see no harm in the prayer.” “Hairm in ’t, my lord! It’s perfetly gran’! It’s sic a prayer as cudna weel be aiqualt. It vexes me to the verra hert o’ my sowl that a michty man like Milton--ane whase bein’ was a crood o’ hermonies --sud ca’ that the prayer o’ a haithen wuman till a haithen God. ‘O all-seein’ Licht, an’ eternal Life o’ a’ things!’--Ca’s he that a haithen God?--or her ’at prayed sic a prayer a haithen wuman?” “Well, well,” said the marquis, “I don’t want it all over again. I see nothing to find fault with, myself, but I don’t take much interest in that sort of thing.” “There’s a wee bitty o’ Laitin, here i’ the note, ’at I canna freely mak oot,” said Malcolm, approaching Lord Lossie with his finger on the passage, never doubting that the owner of such a library must be able to read Latin perfectly: Mr Graham would have put him right at once, and _his_ books would have been lost in one of the window-corners of this huge place. But his lordship waved him back. “I can’t be your tutor,” he said, not unkindly. “My Latin is far too rusty for use.” The fact was that his lordship had never got beyond Maturin Cordier’s Colloquies. “Besides,” he went on, “I want you to do something for me.” Malcolm instantly replaced the book on its shelf, and approached his master, saying-- “Wull yer lordship lat me read whiles, i’ this gran’ place? I mean whan I’m no wantit ither gaits, an’ there’s naebody here.” “To be sure,” answered the marquis; “--only the scholar mustn’t come with the skipper’s hands.” “I s’ tak guid care o’ that, my lord. I wad as sune think o’ han’lin’ a buik wi’ wark-like han’s as I wad o’ branderin’ a mackeral ohn cleaned it oot.” “And when we have visitors, you’ll be careful not to get in their way.” “I wull that, my lord.”