“That’s right, Watty; and I want Andra to come, too. Look here, old fellow. Get the pipes, and you and I and Watty’ll go at the head of the men, and we’ll march across to the side, with you playing ‘The Gathering of the Clans’ in the moonlight, and making the mountains ring. Why, it would be grand.”
“Ay, she’d pe crant,” said Watty; “put she couldna play it. The notes would freeze, ant come rattling doon like hail-stanes.”
“No, they wouldn’t, Watty. My word, how the old pipes would make the mountain-side ring and echo again! Such a sound was never heard before so far north.”
“Hey! and if she had a claymore an’ the plaidie—the plaidie o’ the McByles.”
“Never mind the plaid, Andra. Put on the sheep-skin coat, and come and try.”
The man’s eyes flashed, and, raising himself on his elbow, he thrust one hand behind him, and brought out his beloved pipes from under the blankets.
“Tak’ haud, laddie,” he said. “She was frichten tat the pahg might freeze hairt, put she’s quite saft. She’ll be retty tirectly.”
In ten minutes Andrew was in his big boots and sheep-skin coat and hood, ready to stretch out his hands for the pipes.
“Ahoy, Mr Steve!” came from the deck in Johannes voice. “We’re ready to start.”
“Coming!” cried Steve, who was trembling for fear his efforts had been thrown away and that Andrew would shirk.