“It’s a mercy I wasna mair like an honest man,” said Malcolm, “or that bullet wad hae been throu’ the hams o’ me. Yer lordship’s a wheen ower rash.”
“Rash! you rascal!” cried Lord Lossie; “—when a fellow comes into my room on his hands and knees in the middle of the night! Get up, and tell me what you are after, or, by Jove! I’ll break every bone in your body.”
A kick from his bare foot in Malcolm’s ribs fitly closed the sentence.
“Ye are ower rash, my lord!” persisted Malcolm. “I canna get up. I hae a fit the size o’ a sma’ buoy!”
“Speak, then, you rascal!” said his lordship, loosening his hold, and retreating a few steps, with the pistol cocked in his hand.
“Dinna ye think it wad be better to lock the door, for fear the shot sud bring ony o’ the fowk?” suggested Malcolm, as he rose to his knees and leaned his hands on a chair.
“You’re bent on murdering me—are you then?” said the marquis, beginning to come to himself and see the ludicrousness of the situation.
“Gien I had been that, my lord, I wadna hae waukent ye up first.”
“Well, what the devil is it all about?—You needn’t think any of the men will come. They’re a pack of the greatest cowards ever breathed.”
“Weel, my lord, I hae grippit her at last, an’ I bude to come an tell ye.”