"The gold is your own. It is--it is--"
"Not the redemption-money of the Glenvarloch estate!" said Dalgarno.
"Dare not say it is, or I will, upon the spot, divorce your
pettifogging soul from your carrion carcass!" So saying, he seized the
scrivener by the collar, and shook him so vehemently, that he tore it
from the cassock.
"My lord, I must call for help," said the trembling caitiff, who felt
at that moment all the bitterness of the mortal agony--"It was the
law's act, not mine. What could I do?"
"Dost ask?--why, thou snivelling dribblet of damnation, were all thy
oaths, tricks, and lies spent? or do you hold yourself too good to
utter them in my service? Thou shouldst have lied, cozened, out-sworn
truth itself, rather than stood betwixt me and my revenge! But mark
me," he continued; "I know more of your pranks than would hang thee. A
line from me to the Attorney-General, and thou art sped."
"What would you have me to do, my lord?" said the scrivener. "All that
art and law can accomplish, I will try."
"Ah, are you converted? do so, or pity of your life!" said the lord;
"and remember I never fail my word.--Then keep that accursed gold," he
continued. "Or, stay, I will not trust you--send me this gold home
presently to my lodging. I will still forward to Scotland, and it
shall go hard but that I hold out Glenvarloch Castle against the
owner, by means of the ammunition he has himself furnished.
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