py, a boy
again with all his days before him, and when McRae made an end of his
piping, said Dan with a queer sigh--

"A great gift, Hamish, to be drowned in drink," and as I watched the
piper gulp his usquebach I kent what he meant.

But at his stopping, the Laird rose. "Let be the days o' innocence,
McRae. The March, The March, now, and the onset o' battle. Dirl it
out, dirl it out, for Red Roland was first in the charge, and the cries
o' fear made the blood tingle in his back, the women screaming, and the
men crying, and the red blood flowing, and my father's sword dauntless
in the van--bring it back, McRae. Make my cauld blood hot as in my
manhood."

When he cried for the battle-music, his clenched fist beat the air, his
long locks tossed like an old lion's mane, and the war love shone in
his eyes. A great change came on the piper. He stood his full height,
as straight as a young larch tree, and a cold deadly pride came on his
face, and then with a great swing he threw the drones to his shoulder,
his arm caressed the bag, and his foot beat, beat, beat like a restive
horse, till he got the very swing of his pibroch.

Then with that fine prideful swing of his shoulders he started to
march, and I saw the clansmen gather, wet from the mountain torrents,
with knees red-scarred by the briars of many a wood. I heard the
clamour of their talk, and the high note of their anger, and then
swiftly, silently, below a pale moon I saw their ranks lock and the
grim march begin, onward, onward to the southlands.

And then I heard the wail of the southern mothers, and the laughing cry
of the clansmen as the foemen stood to arms, the wild devilish lilt of
it for glory or a laughing death, and all around a black, black land,
lighted alone with blazing farms, and the broad red swathe where the
hillmen trailed. Came the very struggle, the gasping for breath, the
cry of the fallen, the hand-to-hand grip, and then the great blare of
triumph, and the Red Laird yelled aloud--

"Through, by God, through!"

"I've lived my life, McBride, my ain wild life, and the sadness is
coming on me, to leave my bonny hills and the cold splash o' a summer's
sea. The sadness o' the silent peaks and the gloom o' the hidden
valleys, McBride--ay, but it's fine, the sadness, better than the
heated joys o' the south." And again McRae played, looking into the
heart of the fire, and the far-away look in his eyes, and as he played
I felt a lump ri