“Or maybe her son micht claim first—I dinna ken. But there’s lawyers, my lord, to redd the doot.”
“Her son! You don’t mean——?”
“I div mean Ma’colm MacPhail, my lord.”
“God in heaven!”
“His name’s mair i’ yer mou’ nor i’ yer hert, I’m doobtin’, my lord! Ye a’ cry oot upo’ him—the men o’ ye—whan ye’re in ony tribble, or want to gar women believe ye! But I’m thinkin’ he peys but little heed to sic prayers.”
Thus Miss Horn; but Lord Lossie was striding up and down the room, heedless of her remarks, his eyes on the ground, his arms straight by his sides, and his hands clenched.
“Can you prove what you say?” he asked at length, half stopping, and casting an almost wild look at Miss Horn, then resuming his hurried walk. His voice sounded hollow, as if sent from the heart of a gulf of pain.
“No, my lord,” answered Miss Horn.
“Then what the devil,” roared the marquis, “do you mean by coming to me with such a cock-and-bull story.”
“There’s naither cock-craw nor bill rair intill ’t my lord. I cum to you wi’ ’t i’ the houp ye’ll help to redd (clear) it up, for I dinna weel ken what we can du wantin’ ye. there’s but ane kens a’ the truth o’ ’t, an’ she’s the awfu’es leear oot o’ purgatory —no ’at I believe in purgatory, but it’s the langer an’ lichter word to mak’ use o’.”