The hand that was fondling his curls withdrew as if a serpent had bit it, and Duncan rose from his chair.
“Wass it her own son to pe speaking such an efil thing?” he said, in a tone of injured and sad expostulation.
“For onything ye ken, daddy—ye canna tell but it mith be.”
“Ton’t preathe it, my son!” cried Duncan in a voice of agony, as if he saw unfolding a fearful game the arch enemy had been playing for his soul.—“Put it cannot pe,” he resumed instantly, “for ten how should she pe loving you, my son?”
“’Cause ye was in for that afore ye kent wha the puir beastie was.”
“Ta tarling chilt! she could not haf loved him if he had peen a Cawmill. Her soul would haf chumped pack from him as from ta snake in ta tree. Ta hate in her heart to ta plood of ta Cawmill, would have killed ta chilt of ta Cawmill plood. No, Malcolm! no, my son!”
“Ye wadna hae me believe, daddy, that gien ye had kent by mark o’ hiv (hoof) an’ horn, that the cratur they laid i’ yer lap was a Cawmill—ye wad hae risen up, an’ lootin it lie whaur it fell?”
“No, Malcolm; I would haf put my foot upon it, as I would on ta young fiper in ta heather.”
“Gien I was to turn oot ane o’ that ill race, ye wad hate me, than, daddy—efter a’! Ochone, daddy! Ye wad be weel pleased to think hoo ye stack yer durk throu’ the ill han’ o’ me, an’ wadna rist till ye had it throu’ the waur hert.—I doobt I had better up an’ awa’, daddy, for wha’ kens what ye mayna du to me?”
Malcolm made a movement to rise, and Duncan’s quick ears understood it. He sat down again by his bedside and threw his arms over him.