“Ye sanna even sic words to my gran’father, Mrs Catanach,” said Malcolm with rebuke.
She laughed a strange laugh.
“Sanna!” she repeated contemptuously. “An’ wha’s your gran’father, that I sud tak tent (heed) hoo I wag my tongue ower his richteousness?”
Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would-be friendliness—
“But what’ll ye be seekin’ for that bit sawmon-trooty, man?” she said.
As she spoke she approached his basket, and would have taken the fish in her hands, but Malcolm involuntarily drew back.
“It’s gauin’ to the Hoose to my lord’s brakfast,” he said.
“Hoots! ye’ll jist lea’ the troot wi’ me.—Ye’ll be seekin’ a saxpence for ’t, I reckon,” she persisted, again approaching the basket.
“I tell ye, Mistress Catanach,” said Malcolm, drawing back now in the fear that if she once had it she would not yield it again, “it’s gauin’ up to the Hoose!”
“Hoots! there’s naebody there seen ’t yet. It’s new oot o’ the watter.”