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 dènamh 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!"

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.