The flame fell to a golden bead as the music grew in strength and purpose. There was a burst of light, a peal of triumph, and the music and the flame went out together.
Across the road I raced, threw open the door, and rushed in. Everything was dark and still.
"Donald!" I called passionately.
There was no reply. I crept on tip-toe to the fire and kicked the embers into a flame.
Donald was lying dead across the dead body of his Chief, his dirk buried to the hilt in his own heart.
At daybreak we buried them side by side in one grave on the top of Shap, their feet pointing northward to their own mountains. When the last clod had been replaced, and a great boulder reverently carried up to mark the spot, I turned, covered my head, and prepared to go, but the men stood on. I looked back. They were loath to go. Something that should be done, had been left undone.
I divined what they had in mind, turned back, bared my head as they uncovered, and repeated the Lord's Prayer aloud.
I am thankful to this day to those men whom fools and bigots call savages. They taught me to pray again.
"Man Captain," said the one who had English, as we walked away in a body, "ye wad mak' a gran' meenister."