r of a piece of tinder, fired by a
beaten flint. It is like something come, only to go again, but
presently it passes into a stronger flame, and then into light. This
is the awakening of a Highland day, when the conditions resemble those
of that morning.

The heavy pall of clouds, lying low over the hills, seemed to take
motion, for trifling rents appeared in them. The rents grew bigger,
and then the stars, which had been shining all the time in the welkin
above, began to look through those peep-holes. It was the sun setting
to work upon the earth once more, our side of the globe returning to
his rays and warmth.

Slowly I looked about me, like one roused from a half-dream, seeing the
near things first, and, as the dawn grew, ranging for the far things.
Beneath me lay a glen pavilioned in the splendour of the rising sun,
and gilded with the praise of the hills. Browns and reds and greens
swam before my eyes into a radiant landscape, along which flowed the
water of Don, a ribbon of silver, whose surface the fat trout would
presently be breaking. Beside it wandered the road, on which,
presently, to my astonishment, I made out two figures. Who could they
be, there, at that time?

When I left Corgarff Castle I had, out of habit, slung my spyglass over
my shoulder, and I set it towards the men. One was in the tartan of my
own regiment, the other in a tartan of darkish green with a red stripe
in it, like the Farquharson tartan. I made out, by their actions, that
they were quarrelling, so I started for them, and who do you think I
found? My own sergeant and the Black Colonel's Red Murdo.

"What are you men doing and how are you here?" I asked abruptly, for I
was breathless, as well as surprised and angry.

The sergeant's answer was a salute, for he had not time to speak before
Red Murdo was launched on a torrent of indignant words. He had, he
said, come over to the ball in attendance on the Black Colonel, as I
might know. He intended to depart with him, but had taken more of my
hospitality--stout fellow!--than he could carry, which delayed his
departure. Some of my men had old scores against him, old crows to
pick with him, particularly this sergeant, who, therefore, had followed
him, determined to have the quarrel out: "While I," quoth Red Murdo,
"only want to go quietly home."

"What's the quarrel?" I demanded of the sergeant.

"Well," he replied quaintly, "it does na' matter what it is, tho' he
kens, a