what I say's to the pint for a' that I maun jist explain a wee.--
When I was a laddie at the schule, I was ance tell't that ane o'
the loons was i' the wye o' mockin' my gran'father. Whan I hard it,
I thocht I cud jist rive the hert o' 'im, an' set my teeth in't,
as the Dutch sodger did to the Spainiard. But whan I got a grip o'
'im, an' the rascal turned up a frichtit kin' o' a dog-like face
to me, I jist could not drive my steikit neive (clenched fist)
intil't. Mem, a face is an awfu' thing! There's aye something luikin'
oot o' 't 'at ye canna do as ye like wi'. But my gran'father never
saw a face in's life--lat alane Glenlyon's 'at's been dirt for
sae mony a year. Gien he war luikin' intil the face o' that Glenlyon
even, I do believe he wad no more drive his durk intill him."

"Drive his dirk into him!" echoed Mrs Courthope, in horror at the
very disclaimer.

"No, I'm sure he wad not," persisted Malcolm, innocently. "He micht
not tak him oot o' a pot (hole in a riverbed), but he wad neither
durk him nor fling him in. I'm no that sure he wadna even ran
(reach) him a han'. Ae thing I am certain o',--that by the time
he meets Glenlyon in haven, he'll be no that far frae lattin'
byganes be byganes."

"Meets Glenlyon in heaven!" again echoed Mrs Courthope, who knew
enough of the story to be startled at the taken for granted way
in which Malcolm spoke. "Is it probable that a wretch such as your
legends describe him should ever get there?"

"Ye dinna think God's forgien him, than, mem?"