Dazed with fear he turned and
had staggered halfway across the yard, as if going home, before he
recovered himself. Then he turned again, and with what dignity he
could scrape together said--"MacPhail, you go about your business."
In his foolish heart he believed Malcolm had made the brute strike
out.
"I canna weel gang till Stoat comes hame," answered Malcolm.
"If I see you about the place after sunset, I'll horsewhip you,"
said the factor, and walked away, showing the crown of his hat.
Malcolm again smiled oddly, but made no reply. He undid the mare's
halter, and took her into the stable. There he fed her, standing
by her all the time she ate, and not once taking his eyes off her.
His father, the late marquis, had bought her at the sale of the
stud of a neighbouring laird, whose whole being had been devoted
to horses, till the pale one came to fetch himself: the men about
the stable had drugged her, and, taken with the splendid lines of
the animal, nor seeing cause to doubt her temper as she quietly
obeyed the halter, he had bid for her, and, as he thought, had her
a great bargain. The accident that finally caused his death followed
immediately after, and while he was ill no one cared to vex him
by saying what she had turned out. But Malcolm had even then taken
her in hand in the hope of taming her a little before his master,
who often spoke of his latest purchase, should see her again.
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