There was something in Malcolm’s address that pleased Lord Lossie --the mingling of respect and humour, probably--the frankness and composure, perhaps. He was not self-conscious enough to be shy, and was so free from design of any sort that he doubted the good will of no one. “What’s your name?” asked the marquis abruptly. “Malcolm MacPhail, my lord.” “MacPhail? I heard the name this very day! Let me see.” “My gran’father’s the blin’ piper, my lord.” “Yes, yes. Tell him I shall want him at the House. I left my own piper at Ceanglas.” “I’ll fess him wi’ me the morn, gien ye like, my lord, for I’ll be ower wi’ some fine troot or ither, gien I haena the waur luck, the morn’s mornin’: Mistress Courthope says she’ll be aye ready for ane to fry to yer lordship’s brakfast. But I’m thinkin’ that’ll be ower ear’ for ye to see him.” “I’ll send for him when I want him. Go on with your brazen serpent there, only mind you don’t give her too much supper.” “Jist look at her ribs, my lord! _She_ winna rive!” was the youth’s response; and the marquis was moving off with a smile, when Malcolm called after him. “Gien yer lordship likes to see yer ain ferlies, I ken whaur some o’ them lie,” he said. “What do you mean by _ferlies_?” asked the marquis. “Ow! keeriosities, ye ken. For enstance, there’s some queer caves alang the cost--twa or three o’ them afore ye come to the Scaurnose. They say the water bude till ha’ howkit them ance upon a time, an’ they maun hae been fu’ o’ partans, an’ lobsters, an’ their frien’s an’ neebours; but they’re heigh an’ dreigh noo, as the fule said o’ his minister, an’ naething intill them but foumarts, an’ otters, an’ sic like.” “Well, well, my lad, we’ll see,” said his lordship kindly, and turning once more, he resumed his walk. “At yer lordship’s wull,” answered Malcolm in a low voice as he lifted his bonnet and again bent to the swivel. The next morning, he was rowing slowly along in the bay, when he was startled by the sound of his grandfather’s pipes, wafted clear and shrill on a breath of southern wind, from the top of the town. He looked at his watch: it was not yet five o’clock. The expectation of a summons to play at Lossie House, had so excited the old man’s brain that he had waked long before his usual time, and Portlossie must wake also. The worst of it was, that he had already, as Malcolm knew from the direction of the sound, almost reached the end of his beat, and must even now be expecting the report of the swivel, until he heard which he would not cease playing, so long as there was a breath in his body. Pulling, therefore, with all his might, Malcolm soon ran his boat ashore, and in another instant the sharp yell of the swivel rang among the rocks of the promontory. He was still standing, lapped in a light reverie as he watched the smoke flying seaward, when a voice, already well known to him, said, close at his side: “What _are_ you about with that horrid cannon?” Malcolm started.