and there was a low roar like the roaring of lions. And then a young
lad, with the pipes proudly perched on his shoulder, marched in with a
stately step, and joyous and shrill arose the Salute. Three times he
marched round the long and narrow hall, finishing behind Keith Macleod's
chair. The young man turned to him.

"It was well played, Donald," said he, in the Gaelic; "and I will tell
you that the Skye College in the old times never turned out a better
pupil. And will you take a glass of whiskey now, or a glass of claret?
And it is a great pity your hair is red, or they would call you Donull
Dubh, and people would say you were the born successor of the last of
the MacCruimins."

At this praise--imagine telling a piper lad that he was a fit successor
of the MacCruimins, the hereditary pipers of the Macleods--the young
stripling blushed hot; but he did not forget his professional dignity
for all that. And he was so proud of his good English that he replied in
that tongue.

"I will take a glass of the claret wine, Sir Keith," said he.

Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, rimmed with silver, and having the
triple-towered castle of the Macleods engraved on it, and filled it with
wine. He handed it to the lad.

"I drink your health, Lady Macleod," said he, when he had removed his
cap; "and I drink your health, Miss Macleod; and I drink your health,
Sir Keith; and I would have a lighter heart this night if I was going
with you away to England."

It was a bold demand.

"I cannot take you with me, Donald; the Macleods have got out of the way
of taking their piper with them now. You must stay and look after the
dogs."

"But you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith."

"Yes, I am. I must make sure of having one friend with me in the south."

"And I think I would be better than a collie," muttered the lad to
himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way toward the door, his
cap still in his hand.

And now a great silence fell over these three; and Janet Macleod looked
anxiously toward the old lady, who sat unmoved in the face of the
ordeal through which she knew she must pass. It was an old custom that
each night a pibroch should be played in Castle Dare in remembrance of
her five slain sons; and yet on this one night her niece would fain have
seen that custom abandoned. For was not the pibroch the famous and
pathetic "Cumhadh na Cloinne," the Lament for the Children, that Patrick
Mor, one of the pipers of Macl