'That is saying but little—there are many great men in Scotland still, deserving the dagger of Kirkpatrick and the bullet of Bothwellhaugh—and great is the pity that such pretty things have gone out of fashion. The best tune Rory Dall ever played men will tire of; and so I am tired of this Lowlander's tyranny.'
'He is no Lowlander, Callum,' said I, anxiously observing the fierce expression of my companion.
'He is an Englishman, which is almost as bad.'
I burst into a fit of laughter at this remark.
'Ah—you laugh,' said Callum, grimly; 'let us see whose laugh will be loudest to-morrow. He has cleared the glen of men to make way for game—let us see what he will gain by that—the club-footed ouzel.'
'How?' I asked, glancing in alarm at the pistol on which he was carefully placing a percussion cap.
'This very night I shall fire the heather.'
'For heaven's sake, Callum,' said I, 'beware what you do; for the consequent destruction of life and property may be terrible.'
'I care not—these lords and holiday-chiefs are destroying the people—let the people destroy the game that brings them gold. I will fire the heather, I tell you!' he added, in a fierce Gaelic whisper; 'by that blessed star which led the wise men to the cradle of God, I have sworn to do so, and it shall be done, come of it what may!'
I was about to speak again, when the clatter of hoofs rang on the mountain-path, and Mr. Snaggs passed us on his shaggy-coated cob. Anger swelled my breast on seeing him; but he bowed to us with an ironical smile, and we saw—or thought we saw—that his eyes were brilliant with malice at the success of that "ingenious ferocity" with which he had extirpated the peasantry of the district. He rode slowly up the slope of the great Ben, and the outlines of his ungainly figure and barrel-bellied charger appeared in dark relief between us and the yellow flush that bathed the western sky.