But the moment fowk says wha
I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue
onything I can pruv agane ye."
Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as
putty and its muscles declined response.
"_Ay_ or _no_?" said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen
to yer aith no a hair."
"Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure,
and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her open
palm.
"Na, na," said Malcolm, "nae forhan' payments. Three months o'
tongue-haudin', an' there's yer five poun'; an' Maister Soutar o' Duff
Harbor 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. But brack troth wi' me, an' ye
s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt the warl' wad be a' the cleaner.
Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot the place again.
But afore ye gang I gie ye fair warnin' 'at I mean to win at a' yer
byganes."
The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs. Catanach's face: she drew
herself up and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion.
"Gang frae the hoose," said Malcolm, "or I'll set the muckle hun' to
shaw ye the gait."
Her face turned the color of ashes, and with hanging cheeks and
scared but not the less wicked eyes she hurried from the room. Malcolm
watched her out of the house, then, following her into the town,
brought Miss Horn back with him to aid in the last earthly services,
and hastened to Duncan's cottage.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197