at all.

"Hamish, Hamish, do you hear the sound?" Macleod said, in the same wild
way; "do you not hear the sound?"

"What sound, Sir Keith?" said he; for indeed there was nothing but the
lapping of the water along the side of the yacht and a murmur of ripples
along the shore.

"Do you not hear it, Hamish? It is a sound as of a brass-band!--a
brass-band playing music--as if it was in a theatre. Can you not hear
it, Hamish?"

"Oh, God help us! God help us!" Hamish cried.

"You do not hear it, Hamish?" he said. "Ah, it is some mistake. I beg
your pardon for calling you, Hamish: now you will go below again."

"Oh no, Sir Keith," said Hamish. "Will I not stay on deck now till the
morning? It is a fine sleep I have had; oh yes, I had a fine sleep. And
how is one to know when the equinoctials may not come on?"

"I wish you to go below, Hamish."

And now this sound that is ringing in his ears is no longer of the
brass-band that he had heard in the theatre. It is quite different. It
has all the ghastly mirth of that song that Norman Ogilvie used to sing
in the old, half-forgotten days. What is it that he hears?

"King Death was a rare old fellow,
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"

It is a strange mirth. It might almost make a man laugh. For do we not
laugh gently when we bury a young child, and put the flowers over it,
and know that it is at peace? The child has no more pain at the heart.
Oh, Norman Ogilvie, are you still singing the wild song? and are you
laughing now?--or is it the old man Hamish that is crying in the dark?

* * * * *

"There came to him many a maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine;
And widows with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"

It is such a fine thing to sleep--when one has been fretting all the
night, and spasms of fire go through the brain! Ogilvie, Ogilvie, do you
remember the laughing Duchess? do you think she would laugh over one's
grave; or put her foot on it, and stand relentless, with anger in her
eyes? That is a sad thing; but after it is over there is sleep.

* * * * *

"All came to the rare old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them h