me, or the fire that warms
me, or for God's blessed sun itself, if aught but weal should happen
to the grandson of my father. So let me walk the _deasil_ round you,
that you may go safe out into the far foreign land, and come safe
home."

Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, and signing to
those around that he only complied with the old woman to soothe her
humour. In the meantime, she traced around him, with wavering steps,
the propitiation, which some have thought has been derived from the
Druidical mythology. It consists, as is well known, in the person who
makes the _deasil_, walking three times round the person who is the
object of the ceremony, taking care to move according to the course
of the sun. At once, however, she stopped short, and exclaimed, in a
voice of alarm and horror, "Grandson of my father, there is blood on
your hand." "Hush, for God's sake, aunt," said Robin Oig; "you will
bring more trouble on yourself with this Taishataragh (second sight)
than you will be able to get out of for many a day."

The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, "There is blood on
your hand, and it is English blood. The blood of the Gael is richer
and redder. Let us see--let us--"

Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, could only have been
by positive violence, so hasty and peremptory were her proceedings,
she had drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds of his
plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear
and bright in the sun, "Blood, blood--Saxon blood again. Robin Oig
M'Combich, go not this day to England!"

"Prutt, trutt," answered Robin Oig, "that will never do neither--it
would be next thing to running the country. For shame, Muhme--give me
the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt the
blood of a black bullock and a white one, and you speak of knowing
Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, Muhme.
Give me my skenedhu, and let me go on my road. I should have been half
way to Stirling brig by this time--Give me my dirk, and let me go."

"Never will I give it to you," said the old woman--"Never will I quit
my hold on your plaid, unless you promise me not to wear that unhappy
weapon."

The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt's words
fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to look
moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any
sacrifice.

"Well, then,"