fused to take root in a strange land the glory
had gone from it for ever, and there was nothing to celebrate in song
or story.

Other men from the Highlands failed to win the smiles of fortune in
Gippsland. At home, notwithstanding their tribal feuds, they held
their own for two thousand years against the Roman and Saxon, the
Dane and the Norman. Only one hundred and fifty years ago (it seems
now almost incredible) they nearly scared the Hanoverian dynasty from
the throne of England, and even yet, though scattered throughout the
British Empire, they are neither a fallen nor a falling race.

Glengarry returned to his tent early, and then the buying and selling
of the five hundred cows became the subject of conversation; the
whisky circulated, and Long Mason observed that unfriendly looks
began to be directed towards himself. He was an Englishman, a
Southron, and it was a foul shame and dishonour that such as he
should pay a Highland chief only twenty-seven shillings and sixpence
for beasts that had cost ten pounds each. That was not the way in
the good old days when the hardy men of the north descended from the
mountains with broadsword and shield, lifted the cattle of the Saxon,
and drove them to their homes in the glens.

The fervid temper of the Gael grew hotter at the thought of the rank
injustice which had been done, and it was decided that Long Mason
should be drowned in the inlet. He protested against the decision
with vigour, and apparently with reason. He said:

"I did not buy the cattle at all. Glengarry sold them to Thacker and
my brother in Sydney, and I only came over to take delivery of them.
What wrong have I done?"

But the reasoning of the prosaic Englishman was thrown to the winds:

"Ye've done everything wrong. Ye should hae gin ten pund sterling
apiece for the coos, and not twenty-sen and saxpence. It's a pity
yer brither, and Thacker, and MacFarlane are no here the nicht, and
we'd droon them, too."

Four strong men, shouting in Gaelic the war-cry of Sheriffmuir,
"Revenge, revenge, revenge to-day, mourning to-morrow!" seized the
long limbs of the unfortunate Mason, and in spite of his struggles
bore him towards the beach. The water near the margin was shallow,
so they waded in until it was deep enough for their purpose. There
was a piercing cry, "Help! murder! murder!" John Campbell heard it,
but it was not safe for a Campbell to stand between a Macdonnell and
his revenge. Howeve