“Someting will pe wrong, yes, put she’ll not can tell where. No, her pody will not pe full of light! For town here in ta curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo’ her, and she’ll nefer see plain no more till she’ll pe cone pack to her own mountains.”
“The puir laird’s gane back to his,” said Malcolm. “I won’er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin’ at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. He’s mad nae mair, ony gait.”
“How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt! Ta poor maad lairt!”
“Ay, he’s deid: maybe that’s what’ll be troublin’ yer sicht, daddy.”
“No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not fery maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not to ta plame of him; he wass coot always howefer.”
“He was that, daddy.”
“But it will pe something fery paad, and it will pe troubling her speerit. When she’ll pe take ta pipes, to pe amusing herself, and will plow Till an crodh a’ Dhonnachaidh (Turn the cows, Duncan), out will pe come Cumhadh an fhir mhoir (The Lament of the Big Man). All is not well, my son.”
“Weel, dinna distress yersel’, daddy. Lat come what wull come. Foreseein’ ’s no forefen’in’. Ye ken yersel’ ’at mony’s the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin’ to haud it aff.”
“It will pe true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come.”
“Nae doobt; sae ye jist come in wi’ me, daddy, an’ sit doon by the ha’ fire, an’ I’ll come to ye as sune ’s I’ve been to see ’at the maister disna want me. But ye’ll better come up wi’ me to my room first,” he went on, “for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt.”