"And sail it over the hills to Lochearn!" added her son Malcolm, who was somewhat of a jester.
"No—but carry it on your shoulders, my sons. There are twelve of you; and for what did I bear—for what did I suckle you, but to rear you to act as your father expected, like men!"
"Our mother speaks wisely," said Gillespie.
"'Tis well and bravely thought of," added Ian Mion; "so, now for vengeance on the Neishes, the accursed ceathearne coille!" (i.e., woodmen, or outlaws.)
"Then go," exclaimed Lady Aileen, with uplifted hands; "and remember, the Neish's head, or let me never see ye more, and may the curse of your dead father dog ye to your graves!"
In a minute more the twelve brethren had left the castle, and rushed to a little jetty in Loch Tay, where their birlinn or painted and gilded pleasure-boat was moored.
It was soon beached, or drawn ashore, and raising it on their shoulders they proceeded (six brothers relieving the other six at every mile of the way) to ascend the steep, rocky, shelves of a mountain, and descended from thence into a narrow and gloomy gorge, that forms the avenue of Glentarkin. Unwearied and resolute, the twelve brothers bore thus the birlinn on their shoulders, over this rough and rugged tract of mountain, and down the stony bed of a steep and brawling torrent, which tore its way through a rift of marl and clay, and serving as a guide for miles, poured its waters into Lochearn.
"Quick, lads—quick," urged Ian Mion, pausing in a song by which he had sought to cheer the way.
"Hurry no man's cattle, Ian," said Gillespie, as he panted under his share of the burden.
"But hurry your lazy legs, for a storm is coming."