Close beside the narrow road, so close indeed that a swerve to one side, of a foot or two, would hurl the Wanderer over the rock, is the roaring river Garry. Its bed is a chaos of boulders, with only here and there a deep brown pool, where great bubbles float and patches of frothy foam, and where now and then a great fish leaps up. The stream is a madly rushing torrent, leaping and bounding from crag to crag, and from precipice to precipice, with a noise like distant thunder.
We see an occasional small covey of whirring grouse. We see one wriggling snake, and a lizard on a heather stem, and we hear at a distance the melancholy scream of the mountain whaup or curlew,—a prolonged series of shrill whistling sounds, ending in a broken shriek—but there are no other signs of life visible or audible.
Yes, though, for here comes a carriage, and we have to go closer still—most dangerously close—to the cliff edge, to give it room to pass.
The horses are still panting, and presently up comes a Glasgow merchant and his little boy in Highland dress.
He tells us he is a Glasgow merchant. Anybody would tell anyone anything in this desolate place; it is a pleasure to hear even your own voice, and you are glad of any excuse to talk.
He says,—
“We are hurrying off to catch the train at Blair Athol.”
But he does not appear to be in much of a hurry, for he stays and talks, and I invite him and his child up into the saloon, where we exchange Highland experiences for quite a long time.
Then he says,—
“Well, I must positively be off, because, you know, I am hurrying to catch a train.”