It was Liftore's. She was dumb with disappointment
and dismay. It was a hateful moment. He kissed her forehead and
eyes, and sought her mouth. She shrieked aloud. In her very agony
at the loss of one to be kissed by another!--and there! It was
too degrading! too horrid!
At the sound of her cry someone started up at the other end of
the room. An easel with a large canvas on it fell, and a man came
forward with great strides. Liftore let her go, with a muttered
curse on the intruder, and she darted from the room into the arms
of Caley, who had had her ear against the other side of the door.
The same instant Malcolm received from his lordship a well planted
blow between the eyes, which filled them with flashes and darkness.
The next, the earl was on the floor. The ancient fury of the Celt
had burst up into the nineteenth century, and mastered a noble spirit.
All Malcolm could afterwards remember was that he came to himself
dealing Liftore merciless blows, his foot on his back, and his
weapon the earl's whip. His lordship, struggling to rise, turned
up a face white with hate and impotent fury.
"You damned flunkie!" he panted. "I'll have you shot like a mangy
dog."
"Meanwhile I will chastise you like an insolent nobleman," said
Malcolm, who had already almost recovered his self possession.
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