“You’ll pe knowing now, my laty, why she’ll pe hating ta fery name of Clenlyon.”
“But it was not your grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr MacPhail —was it?”
“And whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?” returned Duncan, drawing himself up.
“The Glenco people weren’t MacPhails. I’ve read the story of the massacre, and know all about that.”
“He might haf been her mother’s father, my laty.”
“But you said father’s father, in your song.”
“She said Allister’s father’s father, my laty, she pelieves.”
“I can’t quite understand you, Mr MacPhail.”
“Well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, and fought ta red-coats at Culloden. Tat’s his claymore on ta wall there—a coot plade—though she’s not an Andrew Ferrara. She wass forched in Clenco, py a cousin of her own, Angus py name, and she’s a fery coot plade: she’ll can well whistle ta pibroch of Ian Lom apout ta ears of ta Sassenach. Her crandfather wass with his uncle in ta pattle of Killiecrankie after Tundee—a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid her cranduncle, for a fillain of a Mackay, from Lord Reay’s cursed country—where they aalways wass repels, my laty—chust as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket Cheneral Mackay, turned him round, without gifing no warnings, and killed ta poor man at won plow.”
“But what has it all to do with your name? I declare I don’t know what to call you.”