In the midst of it all, when the night had come apace, what was this wild skirl outside that made everybody start? Mackenzie jumped to his feet, with an angry vow in his heart that if this “teffle of a piper, John” should come down the hill playing “Lochaber no more,” or “Cha til mi tuladh,” or any other mournful tune, he would have his chanter broken in a thousand splinters over his head. But what was the wild air that came nearer and nearer, until John marched into the house, and came, with ribbons and pipes, to the very door of the room, which was flung open to him? Not a very appropriate air, perhaps, for it was
The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
The Campbells are coming to bonny Lochleven.
The Campbells are coming, oho! oho!
But it was, to Mr. Mackenzie’s rare delight, a right good joyous tune, and it was meant as a welcome to Sheila; and forthwith he caught the white-haired piper by the shoulder, and dragged him in, and said: “Put down your pipes, and come into the house, John—put down your pipes and tek off your bonnet, and we shall hef a good dram together this night, by Kott! And it is Sheila herself will pour out the whisky for you, John; and she is a good Highland girl, and she knows the piper was never born that could be hurt by whisky, and the whisky was never yet made that could hurt a piper. What do you say to that, John?”
John did not answer; he was standing before Sheila with his bonnet in his hand, but with his pipes still proudly over his shoulder. And he took the glass from her and called out “Shlainte!” and drained every drop of it out, to welcome Mackenzie’s daughter home.
PART XI.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE VOYAGE OF THE PHŒBE.
IT was a cold morning in January, and up here among the Jura hills the clouds had melted into a small and chilling rain that fell ceaselessly. The great “Paps of Jura” were hidden in the mist; even the valleys near at hand were vague and dismal in the pale fog; and the Sound of Islay, lying below, and the far sea beyond, were gradually growing indistinguishable. In a rude little sheiling, built on one of the plateaus of rock, Frank Lavender sat alone, listening to the plashing of the rain without. A rifle that he had just carefully dried lay across his knees. A brace of deer-hounds had stretched out their paws on the earthen floor, and had put their long noses between their paws to produce a little warmth. It was, indeed, a cold and damp morning, and the little hut was pervaded with a smell of wet wood and also of peat ashes, for one of the gillies had tried to light a fire, but the peats had gone out.
It was Lavender who had let the fire go out. He had forgotten it. He was thinking of other things—of a song, mostly, that Sheila used to sing, and lines of it went hither and thither through his brain as he recalled the sound of her voice:
Haste to thy barque,
Coastwise steer not:
Sail wide of Mull,
Jura near not!
Farewell, she said,
Her last pang subduing,
Brave Mac Intyre,
Costly thy wooing!