All at once, sounding like an echo, there came from somewhere below a piteous yell, long-drawn and wild, and doleful as the strains of the pipes.
The effect was magical. The old man ceased playing, his face grew distorted, and he stamped furiously upon the floor.
“It’s tat Sneeshing,” he cried, laying down the pipes and making a snatch at his dirk, but only to thrust it back, dart at a great stone which had fallen in from the side of the window, and, seizing it, whirl it up and dash it out of the broken opening down into the court where the dog was howling.
There was a crash, a snapping, wailing howl, and then all was silent.
“She hopes she has killed ta tog,” cried the old man, as he gathered up his pipes again, and once more began to march up and down and blow.
The fierce burst of tempestuous rage and the accompanying actions were not without their effect upon Max, who shrank back now helpless and aghast, staring at the old piper, whose face grew smoother again, as he gave his visitor an encouraging smile and played away with all his might.
Would it never end—that weary, weary march—that long musical journey? It was in a minor key, and anything more depressing it was impossible to conceive. Like the pieces played by WS Gilbert’s piper, there was nothing in it resembling an air, but Donald played on and on right to the bitter end, when once more Max began to breathe, and again he said,—
“Thank you.”
“She hasn’t tone yet,” said Donald, smiling. “She does not often ket a young chentleman like yersel’ who lo’es ta coot music, and she’ll keep on playing to ye all tay. Ye shall noo hae something lively.”
Before Max could speak, the old man blew away, and wailed and burred out what was probably intended for “Maggie Lauder;” but this was changed into “Tullochgorum,” and back again, with frills, and puckers, and bows, and streamers, formed of other airs, used to decorate what was evidently meant for a grand mélange to display the capabilities of the national instrument.