“Proken, dear laddie, son o’ my sin auld Chief—proken all to pits. Didna ye hear ta clash?”
“Let’s carry him in,” cried Max.
“Na, na, my bonnie Southron chiel’,” said the old man, smiling at Max. “Na, na, she can walk; put, Maister Crant, she could tak’ chust a tram o’ Talisker or Clen Nevis, for she’s a pit shakken wi’ coming town sae quick.”
The lads helped the old man toward the gateway while Grant ran off eagerly enough for the whisky.
“Scoody, fetch a chair,” cried Max.
“Lat her carry the auld man in,” said Tavish.
“Na, na, let her pe. I want to see ’em—I want to see ’em,” cried the old man, waving them off impatiently; and he limped to where his instrument, with the green baize bag and pennoned ivory-tipped pipes, lay on the ground.
“Oh tear! wae’s me!” he moaned, as he stooped down and picked up the instrument. “Put ta enemies o’ ta Mackhai listened to ta pibroch, and she turned and fled; put,” he added, looking round piteously, “it was a pran new pahg, it was a pran new pahg.”
“What!” cried Kenneth and Max, as a light struck in upon them, and the circle of sympathisers pressed round; “is the bag burst?”
“Purst!” groaned Tonal’ mournfully; “ant I tried so hart to haud her up, but she couldna dae it, and come doon setting on ta pran new skin. Tidn’t she hear her co pang?”