The marquis looked ghastly, but
was sipping chocolate with a spoon.
"What w'y are ye the day, my lord?" asked Malcolm.
"Nearly well," he answered; "but those cursed carrion-crows are set
upon killing me--damn their souls!"
"We'll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin' awfu' gien ye gang on that gait, my
lord," said Malcolm.
The marquis laughed feebly.
"An' what's mair," Malcolm continued, "I doobt they're some partic'lar
aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonner, my lord."
The marquis looked at him keenly. "You don't anticipate that
inconvenience for me?" he said. "I'm pretty sure to have my billet
where they're not so precise."
"Dinna brak my hert, my lord," cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his
eyes.
"I should be sorry to hurt you, Malcalm," rejoined the marquis gently,
almost tenderly. "I won't go there if I can help it--I shouldn't like
to break any more hearts--but how the devil am I to keep out of it?
Besides, there are people up there I don't want to meet: I have no
fancy for being made ashamed of myself. The fact is, I'm not fit for
such company, and I don't believe there is any such place. But if
there be, I trust in God there isn't any other, or it will go badly
with your poor master, Malcolm. It doesn't look _like_ true--now does
it? Only such a multitude of things I thought I had done with for ever
keep coming up and grinning at me. It nearly drives me mad, Malcolm;
and I would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool bow and a sharp
face-about.
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