“What is that?”
“I cam upo’ anither plot—a mair serious ane, bein’ against a man ’at can ill haud aff o’ himsel’, an’ cud waur bide onything than yer lordship—the puir mad laird.”
“Who’s he?”
“Ilka body kens him, my lord! He’s son to the leddy o’ Kirkbyres.”
“I remember her—an old flame of my brother’s.”
“I ken naething aboot that, my lord; but he’s her son.”
“What about him, then?”
They had now reached the hall, and, seeing the marquis impatient, Malcolm confined himself to the principal facts.
“I don’t think you had any business to interfere, MacPhail,” said his lordship, seriously. “His mother must know best.”
“I’m no sae sure o’ that, my lord! To say naething o’ the ill guideship, which micht hae garred a minister sweer, it wud be a cruelty naething short o’ deev’lich to lock up a puir hairmless cratur like that, as innocent as he’s ill-shapit.”