“And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!” said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and with himself. “Because I saw I was i’ the wrang, my lord. The quarrel was o’ my ain makin’: I hed no richt to lowse my temper an’ be impident. Sae I didna daur defen’ mysel’. An’ I beg yer lordship’s pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, ’cause I took a flewet (_blow_) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel’ i’ the wrang, ’at that’s hoo I wad cairry mysel’ gien ’twas for the puir laird. Faith! I s’ gar _ony_ man ken a differ there!” “Go along with you--and don’t show yourself till you’re fit to be seen. I hope it’ll be a lesson to you.” “It wull, my lord,” said Malcolm. “But,” he added, “there was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i’ the wrang.” So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or agility. For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable. “The great lout!” he kept saying to himself; “why did he let me strike him?” Malcolm went to his grandfather’s cottage. In passing the window, he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to him. “Tere’ll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!” he cried. “You’ll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within her, though she couldn’t chust see it. Where is it?” As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. “God pless her sowl! you are plooding, Malcolm!” he cried the same moment. “It’s naething to greit aboot, daddy. It’s hardly mair nor the flype o’ a sawmon’s tail.” “Put who’ll pe tone it?” asked Duncan angrily. “Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!” answered Malcolm with indifference. “Where is he?” cried the piper, rising in wrath. “Take her to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife her turk into his wicked pody.” “Na, na, daddy,” said Malcolm; “we hae hed eneuch o’ durks a’ready!” “Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!” “No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them.” “Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm--to pe peaten like a tog? Ton’t tell her tat! Ton’t preak her heart, my poy.” “It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at ’s lug.” “And she’ll make no toubt it was true,” cried Duncan, emerging sudden from his despondency. “Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say ’t.”