Next came the highpoint of the evening—the dancing of the Highland Fling and the Sword Dance. Such dancing! The tall, straight, skirted Highlanders with their white jackets and green kilts went from movement to movement, swinging rhythmically and gracefully, leaving the girls breathless at the end. The crowd applauded, long and loudly.
The dancers came back and did the Highland Fling over again. The crowd wouldn’t let them leave. They cheered and whistled. The dancers repeated again and again, each time doing it better than the last.
The group of three that finally won the evening’s prize, a five pound note, climaxed their conquest of the crowd by donating the money to the village coronation fund! The winner of the bagpipe contest followed suit and then the Broad Jump champion, the winner of the Mile Run and the Hurdle Races joined in. Before the crowd really realized what it was doing, everyone was throwing coins toward the center of the field. The band started to play “God Save the King!” Everyone stood up. They sang, first the English National Anthem and then Scotch song after Scotch song.
Finally the lights blinked. The band played “God Save the King” again and everyone moved slowly away. It had been a grand evening with some fifty pounds added to the village fund for a stupendous celebration on the day of the crowning of the King and Queen.
Nan and her friends shook hands with the committee that had planned the evening’s entertainment. Villager after villager stopped to talk with this young descendant of Hugh Blake who had come from far away America to see the old estate. They were simple folk, straightforward and honest in their appraisal of the brown-eyed American, but they found nothing to criticize. Somehow, Nan was able to make them feel that she was one of them, and as they went away gossiping about Old Hugh and young Nan, they all agreed that she was a “bonnie, bonnie lassie.”
The committee, escorting the visitors back to the carriage, urged them to stay in Emberon for the coronation celebration.
“Aye, and it will be a gr-r-r-and day here,” William MacDonald, the chairman, urged. “In London, noo, I’ll gr-r-r-ant ye, it will be ver-r-ry guid too, but mind ye, ye cudna find no better celebration than the one here at Emberon. It’s ver-r-ry proud we are of his Royal Highness and her Ladyship. They pass here ver-r-ry often on their way to the North. Aye, and even once they stopped to watch the games. That was the time young MacDonald, my nephew, ye ken,” he explained proudly, “tossed the caber so high and over so cleanly, that the guid king himself, mind ye, shook him by the hand. Aye, and that was a gr-r-r-and day.” The old man stopped while he thought it all over again, remembering how he had stood right next to his nephew when the king congratulated him.
“Will ye stay?” He repeated his invitation, as with an effort, he shook the memory of that bygone day from his mind and came back to the present and the young Blake lass.
“Noo, and she cudna,” old James Blake stepped into the conversation. “Ither, bigger things,” he lapsed into the dialect of the villagers about him, “are hers in London town.”
Old MacDonald looked up. A flash of understanding passed between the two.