“Certainly not. But I don’t mind confessing that Lady Bellair is not one I should choose to give authority over Lady Florimel. You have some regard for your young mistress, I know, Malcolm.”
“I wad dee for her, my lord.”
“That’s a common assertion,” said the marquis.
“No wi’ fisher-fowk. I kenna hoo it may be wi’ your fowk, my lord.”
“Well, even with us it means something. It implies at least that he who uses it would risk his life for her whom he wishes to believe it. But perhaps it may mean more than that in the mouth of a fisherman? Do you fancy there is such a thing as devotion—real devotion, I mean—self-sacrifice, you know?”
“I daurna doobt it, my lord.”
“Without fee or hope of reward?”
“There maun be some cawpable o’ ’t, my lord, or what for sud the warl’ be? What ither sud haud it ohn been destroyt as Sodom was for the want o’ the ten richteous? There maun be saut whaur corruption hasna the thing a’ its ain gait.”
“You certainly have pretty high notions of things, MacPhail. For my part, I can easily enough imagine a man risking his life; but devoting it!—that’s another thing altogether.”
“There maun be ’at wad du a’ ’at cud be dune, my lord.”