er, 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