“This,” said Coll, showing the strangers in at the door, “is a piper of parts, or I'm no judge, and he has as rare a stand of great pipes as ever my eyes sat on.”
“I have that same,” said the blind man, with his face to the door. “Your friends, Coll?”
“Two pipers of the neighbourhood,” Rory made answer. “It was for no piping we came here, but by the accident of the chase. Still and on, if pipes are here, piping there might be.”
“So be it,” cried Coll; “but I must go back to my cattle till night comes. Get you to the playing with Paruig Dali, and I'll find you here when I come back.” And with that he turned about and went off.
Parig put down the ale and cake before the two men, and “Welcome you are,” said he.
They ate the stranger's bite, and lipped the stranger's cup, and then, “Whistle 'The Macraes' March,' my fair fellow,” said the blind man.
“How ken you I'm fair?” asked Rory.
“Your tongue tells that. A fair man has aye a soft bit in his speech, like the lapping of milk in a cogie; and a black one, like your friend there, has the sharp ring of a thin burn in frost running into an iron pot. 'The Macraes' March,' laochain.”
Rory put a pucker on his mouth and played a little of the fine tune.
“So!” said the blind man, with his head to a side, “you had your lesson. And you, my Strathlachlan boy without beard, do you ken 'Muinntir a' Ghlinne so'?”