The marquis burst into laughter.
“What do you make then of that horrible cut in your own hand?” asked the magistrate.
“I mak my ain business o’ ’t,” answered Malcolm.
While this colloquy passed, Duncan had been feeling about for his pipes: having found them he clasped them to his bosom like a hurt child.
“Come home, come home,” he said; “your own pard has refenched you.”
Malcolm took him by the arm and led him away. He went without a word, still clasping his wounded bagpipes to his bosom.
“You’ll hear from me in the morning, my lad,” said the marquis in a kindly tone, as they were leaving the room.
“I hae no wuss to hear onything mair o’ yer lordship. Ye hae dune eneuch this nicht, my lord, to mak ye ashamed o’ yersel’ till yer dyin’ day—gien ye hed ony pooer o’ shame left in ye.”
The military youth muttered something about insolence, and made a step towards him. Malcolm quitted his grandfather, and stepped again into his room.
“Come on,” he said.