“What, for instance, would you do for Lady Florimel, now? You say you would die for her: what does dying mean on a fisherman’s tongue?”
“It means a’ thing, my lord—short o’ ill. I wad sterve for her, but I wadna steal. I wad fecht for her, but I wadna lee.”
“Would ye be her servant all your days? Come, now.”
“Mair nor willin’ly, my lord—gien she wad only hae me, an’ keep me.”
“But supposing you came to inherit the Kirkbyres property?”
“My lord,” said Malcolm solemnly, “that’s a puir test to put me till. It gangs for naething. I wad raither clean my leddie’s butes frae mornin’ to nicht, nor be the son o’ that wuman, gien she war a born duchess. Try me wi’ something worth yer lordship’s mou’.”
But the marquis seemed to think he had gone far enough for the present. With gleaming eyes he rose, took his withered love letter from the table, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and saying—
“Well, find out for me what this is they’re about with the schoolmaster,” walked to the door.
“I ken a’ aboot that, my lord,” answered Malcolm, “ohn speirt at onybody.”
Lord Lossie turned from the door, ordered him to bring his riding coat and boots, and, ringing the bell, sent a message to Stoat to saddle the bay mare.