“Whaur’s Mr. Morrison?” asked Malcolm.

“He is still in the house,” said Mr. Soutar.

“Gang till him, sir, an’ gar him promise, on the word o’ a gentleman, to haud his tongue.  I canna bide to hae’t blaret a’ gait an’ a’ at ance.  For Mistress Catanach, I s’ deal wi’ her mysel’.”

The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into the room.

“A word wi’ ye, Mistress Catanach,” said Malcolm.

“Certainly, my lord,” answered the howdy with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining-room.  “Weel, my lord—­” she began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the tone and with the air—­or rather airs—­of having conferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition.

“Mistress Catanach,” interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her, “gien I be un’er ony obligation to you, it’s frae anither tongue I maun hear’t.  But I hae an offer to mak ye:  Sae lang as it disna coom oot ‘at I’m onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s’ hae yer twinty poun’ i’ the year, peyed ye quarterly.  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.

But, to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken and the hearth cold.  In his attendance on his father he had not seen the piper—­he could not remember for how many days; and on inquiry he found that, although he had not been missed, no one could recall having seen him later than three or four days agone.  The last he could hear of him was that about a week before a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the Baillies’ Barn with his pipes in his lap.  Searching the cottage, he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were gone.