Their kilts and plaids were of tattered green tartan, and all wore woollen shirts of dark red dyes. Only a few had bonnets; but in these they wore a tuft of deer-grass, the badge of the MacKenzies. This, however, did not deceive the boy or girl, who knew them to be MacRaes, who followed the banner of Lord Seaforth.
The leader, a giant in stature, but fleet of foot and active as a roebuck, was a dark-visaged and savage-looking man, with eyebrows that met over his nose, and were shaggy as the moustache that curled round his fierce mouth, to mingle with his beard. His belted plaid was fastened by an antique silver brooch covered with twisted snakes, and silver tassels adorned his sporan, which was of otter-skin covered with white spots; and hence such skins are said in Scotland to belong to the king of the otters.
"Keep your cur quiet, boy," said this formidable-looking fellow, "or I must put a bullet into him. Go on with your song, my girl, and don't be alarmed; we shall not harm you."
"He is Duncan nan Creagh!" said Colin.
"And our cattle will be taken," sobbed Oina.
Indeed, while the boy and girl spoke their fears in whispers, the gillies, or followers of Duncan of the Forays, as he was named, ran round the cattle in a circle, driving them together, by holloing and striking them with cudgels or the flat sides of their claymores—occasionally using the point, to spur on the more lazy or refractory. Undaunted by the number of the caterans, Colin began to shout shrilly and wildly for succour; but aid was far off, and the echoes of the rocks alone replied.
"Silence!" exclaimed Duncan MacRae, fiercely, "or I shall fling you into the pool, with a big stone at your neck!"
The boy bravely brandished his skene, and dipping his bonnet in the rivulet, as a defence for his left hand, said,—
"Beware, you false cateran; these cattle are from the lands of Finlarig; and Finlarig belongs to Breadalbane."
The tall cateran grinned, and replied,—