The door opened noiselessly. A night-light, afloat in a crystal cup, revealed the bed, and his master asleep, with one arm lying on the crimson quilt. He crept in, closed the door behind him, advanced half-way to the bed, and in a low voice called the marquis. Lord Lossie started up on his elbow, and without a moment’s consideration seized one of a brace of pistols which lay on a table by his side, and fired. The ball went with a sharp thud into the thick mahogany door. “My lord! my lord!” cried Malcolm, “it’s only me!” “And who the devil are you?” returned the marquis, snatching up the second pistol. “Malcolm, yer ain henchman, my lord.” “Damn you! what are you about then? Get up. What are you after there--crawling like a thief?” As he spoke he leaped from the bed, and seized Malcolm by the back of the neck. “It’s a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man,” said Malcolm, “or that bullet wad hae been throu’ the hams o’ me. Yer lordship’s a wheen ower rash.” “Rash! you rascal!” cried Lord Lossie; “--when a fellow comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night! Get up, and tell me what you are after, or, by Jove! I’ll break every bone in your body.” A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm’s ribs fitly closed the sentence. “Ye _are_ ower rash, my lord!” persisted Malcolm. “I canna get up. I hae a fit the size o’ a sma’ buoy!” “Speak, then, you rascal!” said his lordship, loosening his hold, and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand. “Dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear the shot sud bring ony o’ the fowk?” suggested Malcolm, as he rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair. “You’re bent on murdering me--are you then?” said the marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrousness of the situation. “Gien I had been that, my lord, I wadna hae waukent ye up first.” “Well, what the devil is it all about?--You needn’t think any of the men will come. They’re a pack of the greatest cowards ever breathed.” “Weel, my lord, I hae grippit her at last, an’ I bude to come an tell ye.” “Leave your beastly gibberish. You can speak what at least resembles English when you like.” “Weel, my lord, I hae her unner lock an’ keye.” “Who, in the name of Satan?” “Mistress Catanach, my lord!” “Damn her eyes! What’s she to me that I should be waked out of a good sleep for _her_?” “That’s what I wad fain yer lordship kent: _I_ dinna.” “None of your riddles! Explain yourself;--and make haste; I want to go to bed again.” “’Deed, yer lordship maun jist pit on yer claes, an’ come wi’.” “Where to?” “To the warlock’s chaumer, my lord--whaur that ill wuman remains ‘in durance vile,’ as Spenser wad say--but no sae vile ’s hersel’, I doobt.”