“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.
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 siclike as rins ither fowk’s eeran’s.”
“I should be obliged if you would inform me
where the man lives,” returned the lackey—with
polite words in supercilious tones.
“What d’ ye want wi’ him, honest
man?” grimly questioned the Partaness, the epithet
referring to Duncan, and not the questioner.
“That 1 shall have the honour of informing himself,”
he replied.
“Weel, ye can hae the honour o’ informin’
yersel’ whaur he bides,” she rejoined,
and turned away from her open door.
All were not so rude as she, however, for he found
at length a little girl willing to show him the way.
