With eyes intent, and keen as those of a gazehound,
Malcolm retraced every step, up to the grated door.
But no volume was to be seen. Turning from the
door of the tunnel, for which he had no Sesame, he
climbed to the foot of the wall that crossed it above,
and with a bound, a clutch at the top, a pull and
a scramble, was in the high road in a moment.
From the road to the links was an easy drop, where,
starting from the grated door, he retraced their path
from the dune. Lady Florimel had dropped the
book when she rose, and Malcolm found it lying on
the sand, little the worse. He wrapped it in
its owner’s handkerchief, and set out for the
gate at the mouth of the river.
As he came up to it, the keeper, an ill conditioned
snarling fellow, who, in the phrase of the Seaton
folk, “rade on the riggin (ridge) o’ ’s
authority,” rushed out of the lodge, and just
as Malcolm was entering, shoved the gate in his face.
“Ye comena in wi’oot the leave o’
me,” he cried, with a vengeful expression.
“What’s that for?” said Malcolm,
who had already interposed his great boot, so that
the spring bolt could not reach its catch.
“There s’ nae lan’ loupin’
rascals come in here,” said Bykes, setting his
shoulder to the gate.
That instant he went staggering back to the wall of
the lodge, with the gate after him.
“Stick to the wa’ there,” said Malcolm,
as he strode in.
The keeper pursued him with frantic abuse, but he
never turned his head. Arrived at the House,
he committed the volume to the cook, with a brief
account of where he had picked it up, begging her to
inquire whether it belonged to the House. The
cook sent a maid with it to Lady Florimel, and Malcolm
waited until she returned—with thanks and
a half crown. He took the money, and returned
by the upper gate through the town.
The next morning, soon after their early breakfast,
the gate keeper stood in the door of Duncan MacPhail’s
cottage, with a verbal summons for Malcolm to appear
before his lordship.
“An’ I’m no to lowse sicht o’
ye till ye hae put in yer appearance,” he added;
“sae gien ye dinna come peaceable, I maun gar
ye.”
“Whaur’s yer warrant?” asked Malcolm
coolly.
“Ye wad hae the impidence to deman’ my
warrant, ye young sorner!” cried Bykes indignantly.
“Come yer wa’s, my man, or I s’ gar
ye smairt for ’t”
“Haud a quaiet sough, an’ gang hame for
yer warrant,” said Malcolm. “It’s
lyin’ there, doobtless, or ye wadna hae daured
to shaw yer face on sic an eeran’.”
Duncan, who was dozing in his chair, awoke at the
sound of high words. His jealous affection perceived
at once that Malcolm was being insulted. He sprang
to his feet, stepped swiftly to the wall, caught down
his broadsword, and rushed to the door, making the
huge weapon quiver and whir about his head as if it
had been a slip of tin plate.
