Whatever may have been the projected attitude of the marquis, the moment he stood on the piper’s floor, the generosus, that is the gentleman, in him, got the upper hand, and his behaviour to the old man was not polite merely, but respectful. At no period in the last twenty years had he been so nigh the kingdom of heaven as he was now when making his peace with the blind piper.
When Duncan heard his voice, he rose with dignity and made a stride or two towards the door, stretching forth his long arm to its full length, and spreading wide his great hand with the brown palm upwards:
“Her nainsel will pe proud to see my lord ta marquis under her roof,” he said.
The visit itself had already sufficed to banish all resentment from his soul.
The marquis took the proffered hand kindly:
“I have come to apologise,” he said.
“Not one vord more, my lort, I peg,” interrupted Duncan. “My lort is come, out of his cootness, to pring her a creat kift; for he’ll pe hearing of ta sad accident which pefell her poor pipes one efening lately. Tey was ferry old, my lort, and easily hurt.”
“I am sorry—” said the marquis—but again Duncan interrupted him.
“I am clad, my lort,” he said, “for it prings me ta creat choy. If my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house py sitting town, she will haf ta pleasure of pe offering tem a little music.”
His hospitality would give them of the best he had; but ere the entertainment was over, the marquis judged himself more than fairly punished by the pipes for all the wrong he had done the piper.