“Drive his dirk into him!” echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror at the very disclaimer. “No, I’m sure he wad _not_,” persisted Malcolm, innocently. “He micht _not_ tak him oot o’ a pot (_hole in a river-bed_), but he wad neither durk him nor fling him in. I’m no that sure he wadna even ran (_reach_) him a han’. Ae thing I _am_ certain o’,--that by the time he meets Glenlyon in haven, he’ll be no that far frae lattin’ by-ganes be by-ganes.” “Meets Glenlyon in heaven!” again echoed Mrs Courthope, who knew enough of the story to be startled at the taken-for-granted way in which Malcolm spoke. “Is it probable that a wretch such as your legends describe him should ever get there?” “Ye dinna think God’s forgien him, than, mem?” “I have no right to judge Glenlyon, or any other man; but, as you ask me, I must say I see no likelihood of it.” “Hoo can ye compleen o’ my puir blin’ gran’father for no forgiein’ him, than?--I hae ye there, mem!” “He _may_ have repented, you know,” said Mrs Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable. “In sic case,” returned Malcolm, “the auld man ’ill hear a’ aboot it the meenit he wins there; an’ I mak nae doobt he’ll du his best to perswaud himsel’.” “But what if he shouldn’t get there?” persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence. “Hoot toot, mem! I wonner to hear ye! A Cawmill latten in, an’ my gran’father hauden oot! That wad be jist yallow-faced Willie ower again![3]--Na, na; things gang anither gait up there. My gran’father’s a rale guid man, for a’ ’at he has a wye o’ luikin’ at things ’at’s mair efter the law nor the gospel.” [3] Lord Stair, the prime mover in the Massacre of Glenco. Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the conclusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad _Good-day_, turned and left him. He would have gone back by the river-side to the sea-gate, but Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come. “Here’s yer troot, Mistress Cat’nach,” he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. “Ye s’ hae ’t for the saxpence --an’ a guid bargain tu, for ane o’ sic dimensions!”