“Where is ta rascal?” he shouted. “She’ll cut him town! Show her ta lowlan’ thief! She’ll cut him town! Who’ll be insulting her Malcolm?”
But Bykes, at first sight of the weapon, had vanished in dismay.
“Hoot toot, daddy,” said Malcolm, taking him by the arm; “there’s naebody here. The puir cratur couldna bide the sough o’ the claymore. He fled like the autumn wind over the stubble. There’s Ossian for ’t.”
“Ta Lord pe praised!” cried Duncan. “She’ll be confounded her foes. But what would ta rascal pe wanting, my son?”
Leading him back to his chair, Malcolm told him as much as he knew of the matter.
“Ton’t you co for no warrant,” said Duncan. “If my lort marquis will pe senting for you as one chentleman sends for another, then you co.”
Within an hour Bykes reappeared, accompanied by one of the gamekeepers —an Englishman. The moment he heard the door open, Duncan caught again at his broadsword.
“We want you, my young man,” said the gamekeeper, standing on the threshold, with Bykes peeping over his shoulder, in an attitude indicating one foot already lifted to run.
“What for?”
“That’s as may appear.”