“Preserve ’s! Whaur come ye frae?”
It was neither that she did not know the man, nor that she meant any offence: her words were the mere embodiment of the annoyance of startled surprise; but their effect was peculiar.
Without a single other motion he turned abruptly on one heel, gazed seaward with quick-flushed cheeks and glowing eyes, but, apparently too polite to refuse an answer to the evidently unpleasant question, replied in low, almost sullen tones:
“I dinna ken whaur I come frae. Ye ken ’at I dinna ken whaur I come frae. I dinna ken whaur ye come frae. I dinna ken whaur onybody comes frae.”
“Hoot, laird! nae offence!” returned Mrs Catanach. “It was yer ain wyte (blame). What gart ye stan’ glowerin’ at a body that gait, ohn telled (without telling) them ’at ye was there?”
“I thocht ye was luikin’ whaur ye cam frae,” returned the man in tones apologetic and hesitating.
“’Deed I fash wi’ nae sic freits,” said Mrs Catanach.
“Sae lang ’s ye ken whaur ye’re gaein’ till,” suggested the man.
“Toots! I fash as little wi’ that either, and ken jist as muckle aboot the tane as the tither,” she answered with a low oily guttural laugh of contemptuous pity.
“I ken mair nor that mysel’, but no muckle,” said the man. “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae, and I dinna ken whaur I’m gaun till; but I ken ’at I’m gaun whaur I cam frae. That stan’s to rizzon, ye see; but they telled me ’at ye kenned a’ aboot whaur we a’ cam frae.”