“I dinna ken, an’ I maist dinna care; atween ae thing an’ anither, I’m near-han’ distrackit,” answered Malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face. “An’ there’s my daddy!” he went on, “—maist won ower to the enemy—an’ I daurna tell even him what for I canna bide it!—Ye haena been sayin’ onything till him— hiv ye, my leddy?”
“I don’t quite understand you,” returned Florimel, rather guiltily, for she had spoken on the subject to Duncan. “Saying anything to your grandfather? About what?”
“Aboot—aboot—her, ye ken, my leddy.”
“What her?” asked Florimel.
“Her ’at——The leddy o’ Gersefell.”
“And why——? What of her? Why, Malcolm! what can have possessed you? You seem actually to dislike her!”
“I canna bide her,” said Malcolm, with the calm earnestness of one who is merely stating an incontrovertible fact, and for a moment his eyes, at once troubled and solemn, kept looking wistfully in hers, as if searching for a comfort too good to be found, then slowly sank and sought the floor at her feet.
“And why?”
“I canna tell ye.”
She supposed it an unreasoned antipathy.