Malcolm took the key of the wizard’s chamber from his chest and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage.  In a moment he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it and burst it open.  A light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away through the gloom.  It was no shadow, however, for, dashing itself against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head, and, turning at bay, revealed the face of Mrs. Catanach.

In the door stood the blind piper with outstretched arms and hands ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring.  In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust—­an enmity of all mingled kinds.

Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned Mrs, Catanach saw only Duncan’s white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness.  “Ye auld donnert deevil!” she cried, with an addition too coarse to be set down, and threw herself upon him.

The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath hissing through his clenched teeth clutched her, and down they went together in the passage, the piper undermost.  He had her by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and, kneeling on his chest, kept him down with a vigor of hostile effort that drew the very picture of murder.  It lasted but a moment, however, for the old man, spurred by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose with the blood streaming from his eyes, just as the marquis came round the near end of the passage, followed by Mrs. Courthope, the butler, Stoat and two of the footmen.  Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and, signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to the mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs. Catanach’s throat.

“Ye blin’ abortion o’ Sawtan’s soo!” she cried, “didna I tak ye to du wi’ ye as I likit?  An’ that deil’s tripe ye ca’ yer oye (grandson)—­He! he! him yer gran’son!  He’s naething but ane o’ yer hatit Cawm’ells!”

“A teanga a’ diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag denamh breug (O tongue of the great devil! thou art making a lie),” screamed Duncan, speaking for the first time.

“God lay me deid i’ my sins gien he be onything but a bastard Cawm’ell!” she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn.  “Yer dautit (petted) Ma’colm’s naething but the dyke-side brat o’ the late Grizel Cawm’ell, ’at the fowk tuik for a sant ’cause she grat an’ said naething.  I laid the Cawm’ell pup i’ yer boody (scarecrow) airms wi’ my ain han’s, upo’ the tap o’ yer curst scraighin’ bagpipes ‘at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een.  Na, ye wad nane o’ me!  But I ga’e ye a Cawm’ell bairn to yer hert for a’ that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (spider)-leggit, worm-aten idiot!”