“Here's an exploit!” said the man of my story. “There's dignity in yon craft, or less than red-shirts was the wearing of the scamps who row her.”
The loch curled like a feather before her and frothed far behind, and soon her nose ran high on the sand. No word was said, but the first pair of rowers let out a carved plank, and the fellow of my story went over it and behind to the chair with the cushioned seat.
“To the castle?” asked the captain (as it might be), in the way of one who speaks a master, and Adventurer said, “Castle be it.” The barge was pushed off the sand, the oars fell on the water, and she curved into the river-mouth.
When Adventurer reached the bridge, it was before the time of war, and the country from end to end sat quiet, free, and honest. Our folks lived the clean out-by life of shepherds and early risers. Round these hills, the woods—the big green woods—were trembling with bird and beast, and the two glens were crowded with warm homes—every door open, and the cattle untethered on the hill. Summer found the folks like ourselves here, far up on sappy levels among the hills, but their sheilings more their own than ours are, with never a reiver nor a broken clan in all the land. Good stout roads and dry went down the passes to Castle Dark from all airts of Albainn—roads for knight and horse, but free and safe for the gentlest girl ever so lonely. By sea came gabberts of far France with wine and drink; by land the carriers brought rich cloths, spices, and Italian swords such as never were before or since. I made a small piobaireachd once on such a blade; if you put me over my pipes, I—
“Later the pipes, Paruig Dali, the best player in the world! to thy story this time.” Is the cup to my right or left? Blessings! The Castle and Barge were my story.
Up and on, then, under the bridge, went Adventurer and his company of twelve, and he trailed white fingers over the low side of the boat, the tide warm like new milk. Under the long arch he held up his head and whooped gaily, like the boy he was in another dream, and Mactallamh laughed back from behind the smell of lime-drop and crotal hanging to the stones. Then into the sun again, on the wide flat river, with the fields sloping down on each hand, nodding to the lip with rush and flower.
“Faith and here's fortune!” said Adventurer. “Such a day for sailing and sights was never before.”
And the Blue Barge met nor stone nor stay, but ever the twelve fine lads swinging cheerily at the oars, till they came to the white stairs.
Off the boat and up the clanging steps went Adventurer as bold as Eachan, and the bushes waving soft on every side. The gravel crunched to his foot—the white round gravel of Cantyre; kennelled hounds cried warning from the ditch-side; round him were the scenting flowers and the feeling of the little roads winding so without end all about the garden.
“Queer is this!” said he, feeling the grass-edge with his feet and fingering the leaves. “Here, surely, is weed nor nettle, but the trim bush and the swinging rose. The gardeners have been busy in the gardens of old ancient Castle Dark!”