So saying, he thrust the brogues upon me, caught and squeezed my
hand, and turning sharp about, strode away through the shadows,
his kilt swaying, and tartans streaming gallantly.
And, presently, I went and sat me down upon the bench beside the
door, with the war-worn shoes upon my knee. Suddenly, as I sat
there, faint and fainter with distance, and unutterably sad, came
the slow, sweet music of Donald's pipes playing the "Wallace
Lament." Softly the melody rose and fell, until it died away in
one long-drawn, wailing note.
Now, as it ended, I rose, and uncovered my head, for I knew this
was Donald's last farewell.
Much more I might have told of this strange yet lovable man who
was by turns the scarred soldier, full of stirring tales of camp
and battlefield; the mischievous child delighting in tricks and
rogueries of all sorts; and the stately Hieland gentleman. Many
wild legends he told me of his native glens, with strange tales
of the "second sight"--but here, perforce, must be no place for
such. So here then I leave Donald and hurry on with my
narrative.