“Well, it’s played with the fingers—like this,” said Florimel. “And the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the other, ——”
“An’ syne,” cried Malcolm eagerly, “that ane turns roon’ an’ rins efter the first;—that’ll be ‘fled and pursued transverse.’ I hae ’t! I hae ’t! See, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin’, wi’ music an’ a’! The proportions—that’s the relation o’ the notes to ane anither; an’ fugue—that comes frae fugere, to flee, —‘fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue’—the tane rinnin’ efter the tither, roon’ an’ roon’. Ay, I hae ’t noo!— Resonant—that’s echoing or resounding. But what’s instinct, my leddy? It maun be an adjective, I’m thinkin’.”
Although the modesty of Malcolm had led him to conclude the girl immeasurably his superior in learning because she could tell him what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no further, for she understood scarcely anything about grammar, and her vocabulary was limited enough. Not a doubt interfered, however, with her acceptance of the imputed superiority; for it is as easy for some to assume as it is for others to yield.
“I hae ’t! It is an adjective,” cried Malcolm, after a short pause of thought. “It’s the touch that’s instinct. But I fancy there sud be a comma efter instinct.—His fingers were sae used till ’t that they could ’maist do the thing o’ themsels—Isna ’t lucky, my leddy, that I thocht o’ sayin’ ’t ower to you! I’ll read the buik frae the beginnin’,—it’s the neist to the last, I think,—jist to come upo’ the twa lines i’ their ain place, ohn their expeckin’ me like, an’ see hoo gran’ they soon’ whan a body unnerstan’s them. Thank ye, my leddy.”
“I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?”
“Ay, sometimes—i’ the lang fore-nights.”
“What do you mean by the fore-nights?”
“I mean efter it’s dark an’ afore ye gang to yer bed.—He likes the battles o’ the angels best. As sune ’s it comes to ony fechtin’, up he gets, an’ gangs stridin’ aboot the flure; an’ whiles he maks a claucht at ’s claymore; an’ faith! ance he maist cawed aff my heid wi’ ’t, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur I was sittin’.”
“What’s a claymore?”
“A muckle heelan’ braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius, verra likly; an’ more ’s the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword. Blin’ as my gran’father is, ye wad sweer he had fochten in ’s day, gien ye hard hoo he’ll gar ’t whurr an’ whustle aboot ’s heid as gien ’t war a bit lath o’ wud.”