John Fine, with the sun heating his back, started at the singing of Donnacha Ban's “Coire Cheathaich”:—
“O 'twas gladsome to go a-hunting
Out in the dew of the sunny mom!
For the great red stag was never wanting,
Nor the fawn, nor the doe with never a horn.
My beauteous corri, my misty corri!
What light feet trod thee in joy and pride!
What strong hand gathered thy precious treasures,
What great hearts leaped on thy craggy side!”
Rounding Dundarave, the road lay straight before him till it thinned in the distance to a needle-point pricking the trees, and at the end of it was a cloud of dust.
“What have I here?” said Boboon to himself, stretching out with long steps, the kilt flapping against the back of his knees.
The cloud came close, and lo! here was his own clan on the march, draggled and stoury, rambling, scattered like crows, along the road.
“Boboon! Boboon!” they cried, and they hung about him, fingering his fine clothes.
He looked at their brown flesh, he saw the yellow soil in the crannies of their brogues, the men loose and blackguardly, the women red-cheeked, ripe, and big-breasted, with bold eyes, and all had enchantment for him! A stir set up in his heart that he could not put down.
“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.
“On the side of the Rest in Glen Croe, with dry beds of white hay and no hurry.”
“Where are you for?”