Muckle John bowed his head. On his lips was a dangerous smile.
"I will play a tune," said he, "called 'The Dance of the Mackenzies'—it came running in my head an hour back."
"It is the quick mind he has," muttered a black Mackenzie to his neighbour.
"I am not liking the look in his eyes," was the reply, "he is no fool that big man."
But Muckle John was already fingering his whistle, and it was certainly a taking tune and yet with something queer about it—something that made them glance at each other under their eyes for dread of they knew not what.
And Neil Mackenzie started from his lethargy too late.
For at the last bar there was the noise of crackling upon the roof—and the thatch was in a blaze.
With a shout he drew his sword and rushed for the door, but the stranger was ready for him and no man in the Highlands single-handed could hold his own for a minute against the long claymore of Muckle John. He stood in the narrow doorway leaning a little forward, and with a dirk in his left hand.
"Dance!" he shouted derisively as the noise of the fired thatch grew to a sullen roar. "Dance, you dogs!" and flicking the claymore from Neil Mackenzie's hand he ran him through the sword arm.
Then they came at him altogether, a bristling, snarling crowd, armed with dirks only and helpless against his long blade. He drove them back with harsh laughter—fought them back into the blinding smoke, and standing in the doorway burst into song again, putting words to the tune he had played. In a stricken silence they listened, while out in the darkness a boat on the loch halted and rested oars watching the red flames curling up into the night.