"Whose young bantam are you, lad, and what kind of tartan is that for the Mackenzie country?"
Now Rob was not the one to take blows from any one, least of all before a crowd of jeering strangers, and had Muckle John not given him a look there is no saying but that he might have acted rashly.
"There are times," answered Muckle John, "when a man is grateful for small mercies."
Instantly Mackenzie grew very red and took to breathing quickly, like all Highlanders in a passion.
"I seem to know your face," said he, "but I do not know the tartan you wear."
"It is a strange people you are," said Muckle John, "who do not know a bard when you see one."
"A bard," echoed Mackenzie, "then sing or play," and he laughed at the rest of them and winked for what was to follow.
"My boy here carries my instrument," he said, and he drew Rob aside under pretence of conferring with him.
"Rob," he whispered, "hark to the tune that runs just so," and he hummed a bar, "maybe it will be called 'Mackenzie's Dance.' When I have played it once do as I tell," and he laid his mouth close to the boy's ear. "Make your way out and take the old woman with ye, for she can give you a hand."
Then, turning on the Mackenzies, he smiled like a man on a pleasant errand, and standing with his back to the fire began to sing, and at the first note a strange hush fell over the Mackenzies, for none had ever listened to singing like that.