tool so that his
ear was near to the crack of the door, and he could see a little into
the place. There was great company in that room--McGilp and Dan
McBride were there, and Ronald McKinnon and his son Angus, and two or
three of the men of the old names who would be sailor-men too, and
there was great argument, for the men would be sailing their boats, and
their glasses on the table representing the sloops. Once there came
high voices and deep oaths when a Kelso luffed his vessel so close to
his rival's that he spilled Charleach Ian's glass, but Rob McKelvie
righted the vessel and loaded her again with spirits, and the racing
would be continued.

As the time went on the voices were none so loud, but still he could
hear, and it was Ronny McKinnon that was speaking most, and the tale
that came to McCook was this:--

"There would be folk at the South End," said Ronald, "bien folk of his
own name some of them, and the harvest was very good for this year, and
there would be a considerable of spirit and salt to be taken across
quietly. It will be hidden well," said Ronald, "at the Cleiteadh mor,
and the _Gull_ will be there in the offing, and send her boats ashore.
There will be none to expect a ploy that night, for it will be the
night that Hugh McBride will be married on the English lady, and that
will be a diversion."

For, indeed, on such an occasion the half of a parish would be merry
with the eating of hens and drinking of spirit, and the piping and
dancing.

"I will be there," said Dan, "and my son Bryde. It's long since I will
have been at the smuggling," and then there came singing of Gaelic
songs that you can be hearing yet, and at that McCook took off his dram
and went out at the door, for he would be early on the road the next
day.

* * * * * *

There is a fate that stalks in the hills and plays with the lives of
the folk in the valley.

Kate Dol Beag, as ye ken, was a lass at her service at Scaurdale, a
bonny dark ruddy lass and keen for the marrying, and the lad she had
her eye on was the serving-man, McCook. And when these two were in the
stackyard at Scaurdale and well hidden behind the ricks on the next
night, she yoked on him.

"It is not me you are liking," said she, and put his hand from her
neck, "for last night you did not come home and me waiting."

"I could not be coming home, my lass," said he, "for the young mistress
made me stop at my mother's, and B