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.
CHAPTER XIX.
DUNCAN’S PIPES.
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 sic-like 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 I 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.