“What’s a claymore?”
“A muckle heelan’ braidswoord, my leddy.
Clay frae gladius verra likly; an’ more ’s
the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword.
Blin’ as my gran’father is, ye wad sweer
he had fochten in ’s day, gien ye hard hoo he’ll
gar’t whurr an’ whustle aboot ’s
heid as gien ‘t war a bit lath o’ wud.”
“But that’s very dangerous,” said
Florimel, something aghast at the recital.
“Ow, ay!” assented Malcolm, indifferently,—“Gien
ye wad luik in, my leddy, I wad lat ye see his claymore,
an’ his dirk, an’ his skene dhu, an’
a’.”
“I don’t think I could venture. He’s
too dreadful! I should be terrified at him.”
“Dreidfu’ my leddy? He’s the
quaietest, kin’liest auld man I that is, providit
ye say naething for a Cawmill, or agen ony ither hielanman.
Ye see he comes o’ Glenco, an’ the Cawmills
are jist a hate till him—specially Cawmill
o’ Glenlyon, wha was the warst o’ them
a’. Ye sud hear him tell the story till
’s pipes, my leddy! It’s gran’
to hear him! An’ the poetry a’ his
ain!”
There came a blinding flash, and a roar through the
leaden air, followed by heavy drops mixed with huge
hailstones. At the flash, Florimel gave a cry
and half rose to her feet, but at the thunder, fell
as if stunned by the noise, on the sand. As if
with a bound, Malcolm was by her side, but when she
perceived his terror, she smiled, and laying hold
of his hand, sprung to her feet.
“Come, come,” she cried; and still holding
his hand, hurried up the dune, and down the other
side of it. Malcolm accompanied her step for
step, strongly tempted, however, to snatch her up,
and run for the bored craig: he could not think
why she made for the road— high on an unscalable
embankment, with the park wall on the other side.
But she ran straight for a door in the embankment itself,
dark between two buttresses, which, never having seen
it open, he had not thought of. For a moment
she stood panting before it, while with trembling
hand she put a key in the lock; the next she pushed
open the creaking door and entered. As she turned
to take out the key, she saw Malcolm yards away in
the middle of the road and in a cataract of rain,
which seemed to have with difficulty suspended itself
only until the lady should be under cover. He
stood with his bonnet in his hand, watching for a
farewell glance.
“Why don’t you come in?” she said
impatiently.
He was beside her in a moment.
“I didna ken ye wad lat me in,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have you drowned,” she
returned, shutting the door.
“Droont!” he repeated, “It wad tak
a hantle (great deal) to droon me. I stack to
the boddom o’ a whumled boat a haill nicht whan
I was but fifeteen.”
