“It might have been,” she said, risking a miss for the advantage. “It was well that you hurt nobody but your own grandson.”
“Oh, my leddy!” cried Malcolm with despairing remonstrance; “—an’ me haudin’ ’t frae him a’ this time! Ye sud ha’ considert an auld man’s feelin’s! He’s as blin’ ’s a mole, my leddy!”
“His feelings!” retorted the girl angrily. “He ought to know the mischief he does in his foolish rages.”
Duncan had risen, and was now feeling his way across the room. Having reached his grandson, he laid hold of his head and pressed it to his bosom.
“Malcolm!” he said, in a broken and hollow voice, not to be recognized as his, “Malcolm, my eagle of the crag! my hart of the heather! was it yourself she stapped with her efil hand, my son? Tid she’ll pe hurting her own poy!—She’ll nefer wear turk more. Och hone! Och hone!”
He turned, and, with bowed head seeking his chair, seated himself and wept.
Lady Florimel’s anger vanished. She was by his side in a moment, with her lovely young hand on the bony expanse of his, as it covered his face. On the other side, Malcolm laid his lips to his ear, and whispered with soothing expostulation,—
“It’s maist as weel ’s ever daddy. It’s nane the waur. It was but a bit o’ a scart. It’s nae worth twise thinkin’ o’.”
“Ta turk went trough it, Malcolm! It went into ta table! She knows now! O Malcolm! Malcolm! would to Cod she had killed herself pefore she hurted her poy!”
He made Malcolm sit down beside him, and taking the wounded hand in both of his, sunk into a deep silence, utterly forgetful of the presence of Lady Florimel, who retired to her chair, kept silence also, and waited.