“Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to du what _I_ thoucht richt, an’ lay the blame upo’ naebody, whatever cam o’ ’t.” “You young hypocrite! Why didn’t you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before I took you into my service?” “’Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken himsel’ nae sant, an’ yet like to haud his han’s clean!” “What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?” asked the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment’s silence. “She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but I sair misdoobt, for a’ her fine words, it’s a closed door, gien it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him; an’ I wad suner be hangt nor hae a thoom i’ that haggis.” “Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?” “I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an’ bude to be upo’ my gaird.” “Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot----” His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but Malcolm’s manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness. “--I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her,” he concluded. “Ye winna du that, my lord,” cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him. “Who’s to prevent me, I should like to know?” he said. Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered-- but calmly: “Me, my lord. _I_ wull. At ony rate, I s’ du my best.” “Upon my word!” exclaimed Lord Lossie, “you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!” “Hear me ae moment, my lord,” returned Malcolm. “I’ve been turnin’ ’t ower i’ my min’, an’ I see, plain as the daylicht, that I’m bun’, bein’ yer lordship’s servan’ an’ trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel’ the whilk I was nowise bun’ to say to Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o’ angerin’ ye, I maun tell yer lordship, wi’ a’ respec’, ’at gien _I_ can help it, there sall no han’, gentle or semple, be laid upo’ the laird against his ain wull.” The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right. “Go to the devil you booby!” he said--even more in impatience than in wrath. “I’m thinkin’ I needna budge,” retorted Malcolm, angry also. “What do you mean by that insolence?” “I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang _frae_ him. He canna be far frae yer lordship’s lug this meenute.” All the marquis’s gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door. “Hoot, my lord!” he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, “ye sudna hae dune that: ye’ll blaud the carpet!” “You precious idiot!” cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; “why didn’t you defend yourself?” “The quarrel was my ain, an’ I cud du as I likit, my lord.”