“Weel, dinna distress yersel’, daddy.  Lat come what wull come.  Foreseein’ ‘s no forefen’in’.  Ye ken yersel’ at mony ’s the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin’ to haud it aff.”

“It will be true, my son.  Put it would aalways haf come.”

“Nae doubt.  Sae ye jist come in wi’ me, daddy, an’ sit doon by the ha’ fire, an’ I’ll come to ye as sune’s I’ve been to see ’at the maister disna want me.  But ye’ll better come up wi’ me to my room first,” he went on, “for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt.”

“And why will he not pe in ta kilts aal as now?”

“I hae been ridin’, ye ken, daddy, an’ the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts.”

“She’ll not pe knowing tat.  Old Allister, your creat—­her own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worlt efer saw, and he’ll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own lecks nor ta saddle to his horse’s pack.  He’ll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he’ll be kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tem poth together.”

Thus chatting, they went to the stable, and from the stable to the house, where they met no one, and went straight up to Malcolm’s room, the old man making as little of the long ascent as Malcolm himself.

CHAPTER LXVI.

THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER.

Brooding—­if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood—­over the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter, the marquis rode over fields and through gates—­he never had been one to jump a fence in cold blood—­till the darkness began to fall; and the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him.

First of all, Malcolm acknowledged and the date of his mother’s death known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of the world?  Supposing the world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born, where yet was the future he had marked out for her?  He had no money to leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother.

Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the advantages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy, well enough push his way in the world.

Miss Horn could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catanach had asserted him to be the son of Mrs. Stewart.  He had seen enough, however, to make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm were acknowledged as the laird of Kirkbyres.  No:  there was but one hopeful measure, one which he had even already approached in a tentative way—­an appeal, namely, to Malcolm himself, in which, while acknowledging his probable rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he would set forth in their full dismay the consequences to Florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he chose to follow.