Scot clings to
Scot, and she did not like it.
"Displeased, ye daft gomeril!" she retorted. "And I suppose you'll be
pleased, and Margaret will shout for joy, if ye get a dirk in your
assistant aide-de-camp's ribs ane o' these fine nights. Just understand
ance for a', my friend, that a Highlander kills a man wi' as little
compunction as an Englishman squashes a beetle. There's nane o' your
law-and-order bodies beyont the Highland line."
"Nothing but common murderers!" said I hotly. "I have heard much of the
virtues of the Highlanders of late, but this surprises me."
"Hoots! Murderers?" she cried. "No such silly Saxon whimsies. They've got
as many virtues as any Englisher that ever snivelled prayer and shortened
yardstick. Murderers! Hoots, my mannie! Just removers of difficulties!"
So she turned it off with a jest in her pretty way, and got up and jigged
along the corridor with me after her, longing to jig it with her, but
hobbled by my new dignity. I had no clear notion of an assistant
aide-de-camp's duties, but felt that they required a certain solemnity of
manner inconsistent with her ladyship's grasshopper ways.
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