“Ill-deedit,” returned Malcolm, “--whan ye flang my bonny sawmon-troot till yer oogly deevil o’ a dog.” “Ho! ho! ho! Ill-deedit, am I? I s’ no forget thae bonny names! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o’ speirin’ anither queston at ye, Ma’colm MacPhail.” “Ye may speir ’at ye like, sae lang ’s ye canna gar me stan’ to hearken. Guid-day to ye, Mistress Catanach. Yer company was nane o’ my seekin’: I may lea’ ’t whan I like.” “Dinna ye be ower sure o’ that,” she called after him venomously. But Malcolm turned his head no more. As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs Catanach rose, ascended the dune, and propelled her rotundity along the yielding top of it. When she arrived within speaking distance of Lady Florimel, who lay lost in her dreary regard of sand and sea, she paused for a moment, as if contemplating her. Suddenly, almost by Lady Florimel’s side, as if he had risen from the sand, stood the form of the mad laird. “I dinna ken whaur I come frae,” he said. Lady Florimel started, half rose, and seeing the dwarf so near, and on the other side of her a repulsive-looking woman staring at her, sprung to her feet and fled. The same instant the mad laird, catching sight of Mrs Catanach, gave a cry of misery, thrust his fingers in his ears, darted down the other side of the dune and sped along the shore. Mrs Catanach shook with laughter. “I hae skailled (_dispersed_) the bonny doos!” she said. Then she called aloud after the flying girl,-- “My leddy! My bonny leddy!” Florimel paid no heed, but ran straight for the door of the tunnel, and vanished. Thence leisurely climbing to the temple of the winds, she looked down from a height of safety upon the shore and the retreating figure of Mrs Catanach. Seating herself by the pedestal of the trumpet-blowing Wind, she assayed her reading again, but was again startled--this time by a rough salute from Demon. Presently her father appeared, and Lady Florimel felt something like a pang of relief at being found there, and not on the farther side of the dune making it up with Malcolm. CHAPTER XIX. DUNCAN’S PIPES. A few days after the events last narrated, a footman in the marquis’s livery entered the Seaton, snuffing with emphasized discomposure the air of the village, all-ignorant of the risk he ran in thus openly manifesting his feelings; for the women at least were good enough citizens to resent any indignity offered their town. As vengeance would have it, Meg Partan was the first of whom, with supercilious airs and “clippit” tongue, he requested to know where a certain blind man, who played on an instrument called the bagpipes, lived. “Spit i’ yer loof an’ caw (_search_) for him,” she answered--a reply of which he understood the tone and one disagreeable word. With reddening cheek he informed her that he came on his lord’s business. “I dinna doobt it,” she retorted; “ye luik sic-like as rins ither fowk’s eeran’s.”