MARQUISE OF LOSSIE'S ADVENTURES: Malcolm & The Marquis's Secret. George MacDonald
voice, "tat her pag will pe near her latter end; put she pelieved she would pe living peyond her nainsel, my chentlemans."
He ceased abruptly, for his fingers had found the wound, and were prosecuting an inquiry: they ran along the smooth edges of the cut, and detected treachery. He gave a cry like that of a wounded animal, flung his pipes from him, and sprang to his feet, but forgetting a step below him, staggered forward a few paces and fell heavily. That instant Malcolm entered the room. He hurried in consternation to his assistance. When he had helped him up and seated him again on the steps, the old man laid his head on his boy's bosom, threw his arms around his neck, and wept aloud.
"Malcolm, my son," he sobbed, "Tuncan is wronged in ta halls of ta strancher; tey 'll haf stapped his pest friend to ta heart, and och hone! och hone! she'll pe aall too plint to take fencheance. Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. She'll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch is no more."
His quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon.
Malcolm, perceiving from the looks of the men that things were as his grandfather had divined, spoke indignantly:
"Ye oucht to tak shame to ca' yersel's gentlefowk, an' play a puir blin' man, wha was doin' his best to please ye, sic an ill faured trick."
As he spoke they made various signs to him not to interfere, but Malcolm paid them no heed, and turned to his grandfather, eager to persuade him to go home. They had no intention of letting him off yet, however. Acquainted—probably through his gamekeeper, who laid himself out to amuse his master—with the piper's peculiar antipathies, Lord Lossie now took up the game.
"It was too bad of you, Campbell," he said, "to play the good old man such a dog's trick."
At the word Campbell the piper shook off his grandson, and sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every inch of his body trembling with rage.
"She might haf known," he screamed, half choking, "that a cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it!"
He stood for a moment, swaying in every direction, as if the spirit within him doubted whether to cast his old body on the earth in contempt of its helplessness, or to fling it headlong on his foes. For that one moment silence filled the room.
"You needn't attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, Glenlyon," said the marquis.
A howl of fury burst from Duncan's labouring bosom. His broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words: "Clenlyon! Ta creat dufil! Haf I peen trinking with ta hellhount, Clenlyon?"—he would have run a Malay muck through the room with his huge weapon. But he was already struggling in the arms of his grandson, who succeeded at length in forcing from his bony grasp the hilt of the terrible claymore. But as Duncan yielded his weapon, Malcolm lost his hold on him. He darted away, caught his dirk—a blade of unusual length—from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had heard. Malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him.
"Gif her ta fillain by ta troat," screamed the old man. "She 'll stap his pag! She'll cut his chanter in two! She'll pe toing it! Who put ta creat cranson of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat of ta tog Clenlyon!"
As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and dishes from the table. The clatter was tremendous: and the smile had faded from the faces of the men who had provoked the disturbance. The military youth looked scared: the Hanoverian pig cheeks were the colour of lead; the long lean man was laughing like a skeleton: one of the lairds had got on the sideboard, and the other was making for the door with the bell rope in his hand; the marquis, though he retained his coolness, was yet looking a little anxious; the butler was peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheekbones, the handle in his hand, in instant readiness to pop out again; while Malcolm was after his grandfather, intent upon closing with him. The old man had just made a desperate stab at nothing half across the table, and was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a fine dish, Malcolm reached forward to save it. But the dish flew in splinters, and the dirk passing through the thick of Malcolm's hand, pinned it to the table, where Duncan, fancying he had at length stabbed Glenlyon, left it quivering.
"Tere, Clenlyon," he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion, and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic.
Meantime Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took his own handkerchief to bind it up; but the lad indignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand. The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared countenance, to approach the scene of destruction.
"Dinna gang near him," cried Malcolm. "He has his skene dhu yet, an' in grips that's warst ava."
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was out of Duncan's stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist.
"Daddy!" cried Malcolm, "ye wadna kill twa Glenlyons in ae day—wad ye?"
"She would, my son Malcolm!—fifty of ta poars in one preath! Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont."
"For an auld man ye hae killed enew for ae nicht," said Malcolm, and gently took the knife from his trembling hand. "Ye maun come hame the noo."
"Is ta tog tead then?" asked Duncan eagerly.
"Ow, na; he's breathin' yet," answered Malcolm.
"She'll not can co till ta tog will pe tead. Ta tog may want more killing."
"What a horrible savage!" said one of the lairds, a justice of the peace. "He ought to be shut up in a madhouse."
"Gien ye set aboot shuttin' up, sir, or my lord—I kenna whilk —ye'll hae to begin nearer hame," said Malcolm, as he stooped to pick up the broadsword, and so complete his possession of the weapons. "An' ye'll please to haud in min', that nane here is an injured man but my gran'father himsel'."
"Hey!" said the marquis; "what do you make of all my dishes?"
"'Deed, my lord, ye may comfort yersel' that they warna dishes wi barns (brains) i' them; for sic 's some scarce i' the Hoose o' Lossie."
"You're a long tongued rascal," said the marquis.
"A lang tongue may whiles be as canny as a lang spune, my lord; an' ye ken what that's for?"
The marquis burst into laughter.
"What do you make then of that horrible cut in your own hand?" asked the magistrate.
"I mak my ain business o' 't," answered Malcolm.
While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for his pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt child.
"Come home, come home," he said; "your own pard has refenched you."
Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom.
"You'll hear from me in the morning, my lad," said the marquis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room.
"I hae no wuss to hear onything mair o' yer lordship. Ye hae done eneuch this nicht, my lord, to mak ye ashamed o' yersel' till yer dyin' day—gien ye hed ony pooer o' shame left in ye."
The military youth muttered something about insolence, and made a step towards him. Malcolm quitted his grandfather, and stepped again into his room.
"Come on," he said.
"No, no," interposed the marquis. "Don't you see the lad is hurt?"
"Lat him come on," said Malcolm; "I hae ae soon' han'. Here, my lord, tak the wapons, or the auld man 'll get a grip o' them again."
"I tell you no," shouted Lord Lossie. "Fred, get out—will you!"
The young gentleman turned on his heel, and Malcolm led his grandfather from the house without further molestation. It was all he could do, however, to get him home.