“We will go to bed in good time,” said the folks, eating their suppers at their doors; “in good time when this tune is ended.” But tune came on tane, and every tune better than its neighbour, and they waited.
A cruisie-light was set alowe in the blind man's bothy, and the three men played old tunes and new tunes—salute and lament and brisk dances and marches that coax tired brogues on the long roads.
“Here's 'Tulloch Ard' for you, and tell me who made it,” said Rory.
“Who kens that? Here's 'Raasay's Lament,' the best port Padruig Mor ever put together.”
“Tunes and tunes. I'm for 'A Kiss o' the King's Hand.'”
“Thug mi pòg 'us pòg 'us pòg,
Thug mi pòg do làmh an righ,
Cha do chuir gaoth an craicionn caorach,
Fear a fhuair an fhaoilt ach mi!”
Then a quietness came on Half Town, for the piping stopped, and the people at their doors heard but their blood thumping and the night-hags in the dark of the firwood.
“A little longer and maybe there will be more,” they said to each other, and they waited; but no more music came from the drones, so they went in to bed.
There was quiet over Half Town, for the three pipers talked about the Lost Tune.
“A man my father knew,” said Gilian, “heard a bit of it once in Moideart. A terrible fine tune he said it was, but sore on the mind.”