And I said to Thomson, says
I, 'Wha was that gaed by ye, and oot the back gait?' And says he, 'It
was Maister Beauchamp.' 'Are ye sure o' that?' says I. 'As sure's
deith,' says he. Ye ken William's phrase, gentlemen."
Beauchamp's nonchalance had disappeared for some time. When his own
name came out, his cheeks grew deathly pale, and thin from the falling
of his jaw. Cupples, watching him, went on.
"As sune's I was sure o' my man, I saw what a damned idiot I was to rin
efter him. And back I flew to the brig. I kent full weel wha the ither
man bude to be. It could be nane but my ain Alec Forbes; for I sweir to
ye, gentlemen, I hae watched The MacChattachan watchin' Alec Forbes
mair nor twa or three times sin' Alec throosh him for bein' foul-mou'd
i' the face o' the deid."
By this time Beauchamp, having swallowed the rest of his tumbler at a
gulp, had recovered a little. He rose with defiance on his face.
"Dinna lat him gang, gentlemen," cried Cupples, "till I tell ye ae
ither God's trowth.--I ran back to the brig, as hard's my legs cud
carry me, consolin' mysel' wi' the reflection that gin Alec had na been
sair hurtit i' the scuffle, there was no fear o' him.
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