When the fit was over and he found Mr. Graham was gone, he asked Malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take Lady Florimel to come from Edinburgh.

“Mr. Crathie left wi’ fower horses frae the Lossie Airms last nicht, my lord,” said Malcolm; “but the ro’ds are ill, an’ she winna be here afore some time the morn.”

The marquis stared aghast:  they had sent for her without his orders.  “What shall I do?” he murmured.  “If once I look in her eyes, I shall be damned.—­Malcolm!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is there a lawyer in Portlossie?”

“Yes, my lord:  there’s auld Maister Carmichael.”

“He won’t do:  he was my brother’s rascal.  Is there no one besides?”

“No in Portlossie, my lord.  There can be nane nearer than Duff Harbor, I doobt.”

“Take the chariot and bring him here directly.  Tell them to put four horses to:  Stokes can ride one.”

“I’ll ride the ither, my lord.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind:  you’re not used to the pole.”

“I can tak the leader, my lord.”

“I tell you you’re to do nothing of the kind,” cried the marquis angrily.  “You’re to ride inside, and bring Mr.—­what’s his name?—­back with you.”

“Soutar, my lord, gien ye please.”

“Be off, then.  Don’t wait to feed.  The brutes have been eating all day, and they can eat all night.  You must have him here in an hour.”

In an hour and a quarter Miss Horn’s friend stood by the marquis’s bedside, Malcolm was dismissed, but was presently summoned again to receive more orders.

Fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out once more—­this time to fetch a justice of the peace, a neighbor laird.  The distance was greater than to Duff Harbor; the roads were worse; the north wind, rising as they went, blew against them as they returned, increasing to a violent gale; and it was late before they reached Lossie House.

When Malcolm entered he found the marquis alone.

“Is Morrison here at last?” he cried, in a feeble, irritated voice.

“Yes, my lord.”

“What the devil kept you so long?  The bay mare would have carried me there and back in an hour and a half.”

“The roads war verra heavy, my lord.  An’ jist hear till the win’.”

The marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression grew over his thin, pale, anxious face.  “You don’t know what depends on it,” he said, “or you would have driven better.  Where is Mr. Soutar?”

“I dinna ken, my lord.  I’m only jist come, an’ I’ve seen naebody.”

“Go and tell Mrs. Courthope I want Soutar.  You’ll find her crying somewhere—­the old chicken!—­because I swore at her.  What harm could that do the old goose?”

“It’ll be mair for love o’ yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin’, my lord.”

“You think so?  Why should she care?  Go and tell her I’m sorry.  But really she ought to be used to me by this time.  Tell her to send Soutar directly.”