“You needn’t attempt to deny it; it really was too bad of you, Glenlyon,” said the marquis.
A howl of fury burst from Duncan’s labouring bosom. His broadsword flashed from its sheath, and brokenly panting out the words: “Clenlyon! Ta creat dufil! Haf I peen trinking with ta hellhount, Clenlyon?”—he would have run a Malay muck through the room with his huge weapon. But he was already struggling in the arms of his grandson, who succeeded at length in forcing from his bony grasp the hilt of the terrible claymore. But as Duncan yielded his weapon, Malcolm lost his hold on him. He darted away, caught his dirk —a blade of unusual length—from its sheath, and shot in the direction of the last word he had heard. Malcolm dropped the sword and sprung after him.
“Gif her ta fillain by ta troat,” screamed the old man. “She ’ll stap his pag! She’ll cut his chanter in two! She’ll pe toing it! Who put ta creat cranson of Inverriggen should pe cutting ta troat of ta tog Clenlyon!”
As he spoke, he was running wildly about the room, brandishing his weapon, knocking over chairs, and sweeping bottles and dishes from the table. The clatter was tremendous: and the smile had faded from the faces of the men who had provoked the disturbance. The military youth looked scared: the Hanoverian pig-cheeks were the colour of lead; the long lean man was laughing like a skeleton: one of the lairds had got on the sideboard, and the other was making for the door with the bell-rope in his hand; the marquis, though he retained his coolness, was yet looking a little anxious; the butler was peeping in at the door, with red nose and pale cheek-bones, the handle in his hand, in instant readiness to pop out again; while Malcolm was after his grandfather, intent upon closing with him. The old man had just made a desperate stab at nothing half across the table, and was about to repeat it, when, spying danger to a fine dish, Malcolm reached forward to save it. But the dish flew in splinters, and the dirk, passing through the thick of Malcolm’s hand, pinned it to the table, where Duncan, fancying he had at length stabbed Glenlyon, left it quivering.
“Tere, Clenlyon,” he said, and stood trembling in the ebb of passion, and murmuring to himself something in Gaelic.
Meantime Malcolm had drawn the dirk from the table, and released his hand. The blood was streaming from it, and the marquis took his own handkerchief to bind it up; but the lad indignantly refused the attention, and kept holding the wound tight with his left hand. The butler, seeing Duncan stand quite still, ventured, with scared countenance, to approach the scene of destruction.
“Dinna gang near him,” cried Malcolm. “He has his skene dhu yet, an’ in grips that’s warst ava’.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the black knife was out of Duncan’s stocking, and brandished aloft in his shaking fist.
“Daddy!” cried Malcolm, “ye wadna kill twa Glenlyons in ae day— wad ye?”
“She would, my son Malcolm!—fifty of ta poars in one preath! Tey are ta children of wrath, and tey haf to pe testructiont.”