He had not heard Lady Florimel enter. She went softly up behind him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started to his feet.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said, retreating a step or two.
“I wad gie twa to be rid o’ them,” he returned, shaking his bushy head as if to scare the invisible ravens hovering about it.
“How fine you are!” Florimel went on, regarding him with an approbation too open to be altogether gratifying. “—The dress suits you thoroughly. I didn’t know you at first. I thought it must be some friend of papa’s. Now I remember he said once you must wear the proper dress for a henchman. How do you like it?”
“It’s a’ ane to me,” said Malcolm. “I dinna care what I weir.— Gien only I had a richt till ’t!” he added with a sigh.
“It is too bad of you, Malcolm!” rejoined Florimel in a tone of rebuke. “The moment fortune offers you favour, you fall out with her—won’t give her a single smile. You don’t deserve your good luck.”
Malcolm was silent.
“There’s something on your mind,” Florimel went on, partly from willingness to serve Mrs Stewart, partly enticed by the romance of being Malcolm’s comforter, or perhaps confessor.
“Ay is there, my leddy.”
“What is it? Tell me. You can trust me!”