would undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of
Dalcastle and Balgrennan. George, being irritated beyond
measure, as may well be conceived, especially at the deadly
stroke aimed at him, struck the assailant with his racket, rather
slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out blood; and, at
the same time, he said, turning to his cronies: "Does any of you
know who the infernal puppy is?"

"Do you know, Sir?" said one of the onlookers, a stranger, "the
gentleman is your own brother, Sir--Mr. Robert Wringhim
Colwan!"

"No, not Colwan, Sir," said Robert, putting his hands in his
pockets, and setting himself still farther forward than before, "not
a Colwan, Sir; henceforth I disclaim the name."

"No, certainly not," repeated George. "My mother's son you may.
be--but not a Colwan! There you are right." Then, turning around
to his informer, he said: "Mercy be about us, Sir! Is this the crazy
minister's son from Glasgow?"

This question was put in the irritation of the moment, but it was
too rude, and far too out of place, and no one deigned any answer
to it. He felt the reproof, and felt it deeply; seeming anxious for
some opportunity to make an acknowledgment, or some
reparation.

In the meantime, young Wringhim was an object to all of the
uttermost disgust. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose
he took no pains to stem, neither did he so much as wipe it away;