Store Thompson's place across the way was surrounded by a crowd of
eager spectators, for such a spectacle as a procession had not been
witnessed in the Glen within the memory of the earliest settler. Then
there were rumours of trouble too; Pat Murphy and his friends were
there ready to produce it; and besides, everyone suspected that the
MacDonalds had some scheme afoot. Store Thompson himself was excited.
He had not seen Big Malcolm for more than a fortnight, and he was
anxious about his war-like friend. Surely, he told himself a dozen
times, Malcolm would never break forth into strife again after the
stand he had been taking during the past few winters for the bettering
of the community. And yet, as the kindly old gentleman confided to
Sandy Hamilton, who had stopped the mill and come up to see what was
transpiring, he could not help feeling "a wee thing apprehensive-like."

A few minutes before twelve, the appointed hour for the procession to
appear, the patience of the crowd was rewarded. Pat Murphy had just
assembled his satellites in the middle of the road and was haranguing
them and, incidentally, all the township of Oro upon their duties, when
a loud, shrill yell from the hilltops rent the air; there was a dull
thud, thud of marching feet. The procession was coming! For a moment
nationalities and creeds were both forgotten in a common desire to
witness the spectacle. English, Irish, and Scotch crowded eagerly into
the road; every eye was turned towards the south hill. Yes, the
procession was certainly coming, but what was this unearthly noise it
was making? And where were the fifes and the drums? And why, in the
name of all the cardinal points, was it coming down the north hill from
the Oa, instead of from the Flats?

And then there were no more questions, but just a sea of silent faces
held upwards in gaping amazement, for out from the pine grove of the
northern river-bank, with a shriek of pipes and a flutter of plaids,
whirled Fiddlin' Archie MacDonald in full Highland costume; and behind
him, armed and menacing, tramped every available male of the clan
MacDonald, from Long Lauchie's seventeen-year-old Peter, up to--yes,
alas, for the new era and its reforms!--Big Malcolm himself, all in
perfect time to the wild yell of the MacDonald pibroch!

Down they swept like a Highland charge, the pipes screaming out a
fierce challenge to anyone reckless enough to stand in their path, and
awakening such