In the lower parts of the level landscape, large pools of water glittered here and there in the rushy hollows; a shower of rain had fallen about mid-day, and now a bright silver haze floated over the enamelled meadows. Near our bivouac a stream gurgled on its way almost noiselessly to the sea, unlike our mountain burns at home, which, after a shower, rush in fury sheeted with foam, and bearing at times rocks, trees, and stones, to the German ocean or the Caledonian sea.
As the time wore slowly on, and I did nothing in the way of conversation to lighten its tedium, but sat at the foot of a tree lost in thought, old Kildon, as he filled the quaighs of all around him, proposed that we should have a song or a story after the good old fashion at home; and he forthwith set the example by singing, in very good style, that old and dirge-like song which Ossian has addressed to The Owl, and which elicited a burst of applause from our soldiers.
"Aire Muire! let us have a story now," said he, "or we shall all mope here like the owls of the song; come, Phadrig Mhor—a story; or do you, Rollo, tell us something. You did not study at the King's College for naught—and, faith! that same study must have cost the old Laird of the Craig a good many silver bonnet-pieces."
"He is in the region of clouds," said M'Alpine, "and has nothing to tell or propose."
"Except your health, Angus," said I; "and that you will please to tell us why you wear that crape scarf on your arm."
Red Angus started, and a fierce gleam shot athwart his fiery eyes and darkening face.
A murmur of dissent among those near us, warned me that I had broached an unfortunate subject, which some of them knew.
"Pardon my thoughtlessness, Angus," said I, grasping his hand; "if I have probed an old wound, or awakened a bitter memory, by my soul it was done unwittingly."
"You have probed an old and a deep wound, Philip, and referred to a badge which I never can behold without bitterness and regret. Had you come from among the clans in the west, instead of from those of the north, you had known the story. Kildon, M'Coll, Sir Donald the chief, all knew it, and might a hundred times have told it; but they respected the sorrow and shame of their comrade—said I shame? Nay, there is in it none to me; then why should I refrain from relating what I have so little reason to conceal."
Captain M'Alpine filled twice his quaigh with wine, and twice he drained it, with the air of a man who requires false courage to tell his story, and after twirling his long mustaches, began thus in his native and forcible Gaëlic:—