Kenneth did not finish his sentence, but made a peculiar cluck with his tongue—a sound which might have meant anything.
All this time the old man stood, with his flowing white locks and beard, motioning to Max to come; and unwillingly enough he entered the old tower, and climbed cautiously up, avoiding the broken places, and finally reaching the chamber in the top.
“She shall sit town there,” said the old man, pointing to a stool set in the ruinous fireplace; and, without the slightest idea of what was going to happen, Max seated himself and waited to hear what the piper had to say.
He was not kept long in suspense, for the old man said, with a benevolent look on his ancient face,—
“She lo’es ta pipes, and she shall hear them the noo, for they’re mentit up, and tere’s nae music like them in ta wide world.”
As he spoke, he raised the lid of a worm-eaten old chest, and, smiling the while, took out the instrument, placed the green baize-covered bag under one arm, arranged the long pipes over his shoulder, and, inflating his cheeks, seemed to mount guard over the doorway, making Max a complete prisoner, and sending a thrill of misery through him, as, after producing a few sounds, the old man took the mouthpiece from his lips, and said, with a smile,—
“‘Macrimmon’s Lament.’”
Max felt as if he should like to stick his fingers in his ears, but he dared not,—as if he should like to rush down the stairs, but he could not. For the old man fixed him with his eyes, and, keeping his head turned towards his prisoner, began to march up and down the broken stone floor, and blew so wild a dirge that in a few moments it became almost maddening.
For Max Blande’s nerves, from the retired London life he had led, were sensitive to a degree. He had never had them strung up by open-air sports or life among the hills, but had passed his time in study, reading almost incessantly; though even to the ears of an athlete, if he were shut up in a small chamber with a piper, the strains evoked from this extremely penetrating instrument might jar.
As Donald marched up and down in a pace that was half trot, half dance, his eyes brightened and sparkled; his yellow cheeks flushed as they were puffed out; and, as he went to and fro before the window, the sea-breeze made his long hair and beard stream out behind, giving him a wild, weird aspect that was almost startling, as it helped to impress Max with a feeling of awe which fixed him to his chair. For if he dared to rise he felt that he would be offering a deadly affront to the old minstrel, one which, hot-blooded Highlander as he was, he might resent with his dirk, or perhaps do him a mischief in a more simple manner, by spurning him with his foot as he retreated—in other words, kick him down-stairs.