Just at that moment a weird-looking figure appeared at the door, with his long grey hair and beard streaked together with the rain, and, as he caught Max’s eye, he smiled at him, raised one hand, gave a mysterious-looking nod, and beckoned to him to come.
“Here, Maxy, old Donald wants you.”
“What for?” said Max, as he shrinkingly met the old man’s eye, as he still kept on beckoning, and completely ignored the presence of the rest.
“He wants to give you a tune on the pipes.”
Donald beckoned again in a quiet, mysterious manner, and the three dogs looked at him uneasily, Sneeshing uttering a low growl, as if he had unpleasant memories of bagpipe melodies and stones thrown at him because he had been unable to bear the music, and had howled.
“What’s the matter, Tonal’?” cried Kenneth, as the old man kept on beckoning.
“She disna want onybody but ta Southron chiel’,” said the old man sternly; and he continued to wave Max toward him with his long, claw-like hand.
For a few moments Max felt as if he must go—as if some force which he had not the moral courage to resist was drawing him, and he was about to rise, when the old man gave a fierce stamp with his foot.
“You’ll be obliged to go, Maxy,” said Kenneth. “Have a concert all to yourself for three or four hours. It will be rather windy, but the rain doesn’t come in on one side of the old tower room.”
“No, no, not to-day!” cried Max hastily.