hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert,
weyver (_spider_)-leggit, worm-aten idiot!"

A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed
another from Mrs. Catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh
in consonant sounds. The marquis stepped into the room. "What is the
meaning of all this?" he said with dignity.

The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The old piper drew himself up
to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Catanach, red as fire
with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. The marquis cast on her a
searching and significant look.

"See here, my lord," said Malcolm.

Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. At the same moment
Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of
mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished.

On Malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn
countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation. She was
recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless.

"It's Phemy, my lord--Blue Peter's lassie, 'at was tint," said
Malcolm.

"It begins to look serious," said the marquis.--"Mrs. Catanach! Mrs.
Courthope!"

He turned toward the door. Mrs. Courthope entered, and a head or two
peeped in after her. Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his
visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel.

"Where is the Catanach woman gone?" cried the marquis.

"Cone!" shouted the piper. "Cone! and her huspant will be waiting to
pe killing her! Och nan ochan!"

"Her husband!" echoed the marquis.

"Ach! she'll not can pe helping it, my lort--no more till one will
pe tead; and tat should pe ta woman, for she'll pe a paad woman--ta
worstest woman efer was married, my lort."

"That's saying a good deal," returned the marquis.

"Not one wort more as enough, my lort," said Duncan. "She was only pe
her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she'll pe marry her? You
would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she'll was your wife and
you was knowing ta tamned fox and padger she was pe. Ochone! and she
tidn't pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose."

He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in
the agony of frustrated rage.

Mrs. Courthope took Phemy in her arms and carried her to her own room,
where she opened the window and let the snowy wind blow full upon her.
As soon as she came quite to herself, Malcolm set out to bear the good
tidin