“Go to the devil you booby!” he said—even more in impatience than in wrath.
“I’m thinkin’ I needna budge,” retorted Malcolm, angry also.
“What do you mean by that insolence?”
“I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna be far frae yer lordship’s lug this meenute.”
All the marquis’s gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door.
“Hoot, my lord!” he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, “ye sudna hae dune that: ye’ll blaud the carpet!”
“You precious idiot!” cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; “why didn’t you defend yourself?”
“The quarrel was my ain, an’ I cud du as I likit, my lord.”
“And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!” said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and with himself.
“Because I saw I was i’ the wrang, my lord. The quarrel was o’ my ain makin’: I hed no richt to lowse my temper an’ be impident. Sae I didna daur defen’ mysel’. An’ I beg yer lordship’s pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, ’cause I took a flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel’ i’ the wrang, ’at that’s hoo I wad cairry mysel’ gien ’twas for the puir laird. Faith! I s’ gar ony man ken a differ there!”