mystery. At the same time the younger boys occasionally darted a
stealthy glance backward to that gloomy apartment that had so suddenly
become alive with unknown things.

Then the games began. Rob had come to the conclusion that a wise
chieftain should foster a love for national sports and pastimes; and to
that end he had invented a system of marks, the winning of a large
number of which entitled the holder to pecuniary or other reward. As
for himself, his part was that of spectator and arbiter; he handicapped
the competitors; he declared the prizes. On this occasion he ensconced
himself in a niche of the ruins, where he was out of the glare of the
sun, and gracefully surrounded by masses of ivy; while his relatives
hauled out to the middle of the green plateau several trunks of
fir-trees, of various sizes, that had been carefully lopped and pruned
for the purpose of 'tossing the caber.' Well, they 'tossed the caber,'
they 'put the stone,' they had wrestling-matches and other trials of
strength, Rob the while surveying the scene with a critical eye, and
reckoning up the proper number of marks. But now some milder
diversions followed. Three or four planks, rudely nailed together, and
forming a piece of rough flooring about two or three yards square, were
hauled out from an archway, placed on the grass, and a piece of
tarpaulin thrown over it. Then two of the boys took out their
Jew's-harps--alas! alas! that was the only musical instrument within
their reach, until the coveted bagpipes should be purchased--and gaily
struck up with 'Green grow the rashes, O!' as a preliminary flourish.
What was this now? What but a performance of the famous sword-dance by
that renowned and valiant henchman, Nicol MacNicol of Erisaig, in the
kingdom of Scotland! Nicol, failing a couple of broadswords or four
dirks, had got two pieces of rusty old iron and placed them cross-wise
on the extemporised floor. With what skill and nimbleness he proceeded
to execute this sword-dance,--which is no doubt the survival of some
ancient mystic rite,--with what elegance he pointed his toes and held
his arms akimbo; with what amazing dexterity, in all the evolutions of
the dance, he avoided touching the bits of iron; nay, with what
intrepidity, at the most critical moment, he held his arms aloft and
victoriously snapped his thumbs, it wants a Homeric chronicler to tell.
It needs only be said here that, after it, Neil's 'Highland Fling' was
a co