"A fiddle!" exclaimed Donald in accents of withering scorn, and
still addressing the fire. "Ye can juist tell him tae gang tae
the de'il wi' his fiddle."
"Music is, I take it, the expression of one's mood or thought, a
dream translated into sound," said I thoughtfully, "therefore--"
"Hae ye ever heard the pipes?"
"Why, yes, but long ago."
"Then," said Donald, "ye shall juist hear 'em again." So saying,
he wiped his mouth, took up his instrument, and began slowly
inflating it.
Then, all at once, from drones and chanter there rushed forth
such a flood of melody as seemed to sweep me away upon its tide.
First I seemed to hear a roar of wind through desolate glens, a
moan of trees, and a rush of sounding waters; yet softly, softly
there rises above the flood of sound a little rippling melody
which comes, and goes, and comes again, growing ever sweeter with
repetition. And now the roar of wind is changed to the swing of
marching feet, the tread of a mighty host whose step is strong
and free; and lo! they are singing, as they march, and the song
is bold and wild, wild, wild. Again and again, beneath the song,
beneath the rhythm of marching feet, the melody rises, very sweet
but infinitely sad, like a silver pipe or an angel's voice
tremulous with tears. Once again the theme changes, and it is
battle, and death, sudden, and sharp; there is the rush and shock
of charging ranks, and the surge and tumult of conflict, above
whose thunder, loud and clear and shrill, like some battle-cry,
the melody swells, one moment triumphant, and the next lost again.
But the thunder rolls away, distant and more distant--the day
is lost, and won; but, sudden and clear, the melody rings out
once more, fuller now, richer, and complete; the silver pipe
has become a golden trumpet. And yet, what sorrow, what
anguish unspeakable rings through it, the weeping and wailing
of a nation! So the melody sinks slowly, to die away in one
long-drawn, minor note, and Donald is looking across at me with
his grave smile, and I will admit both his face and figure are
sadly blurred.
"Donald," said I, after a little, "Donald, I will never speak
against the pipes again; they are indeed the king of all
instruments--played as you play them."
"Ou ay, I'm a bonnie piper, I'll no deny it!" he answered. "I'm
glad ye like it, for, Sassenach though ye be, it proves ye hae
the music. 'Tis a bit pibroch I made tae Wullie Wallace--him as
the damned Sassenach murtiered--black be their fa'. Aweel!
'twas done afore your time or mine--so--gude-nict tae ye,
Southeron!" Saying which, he rose, saluted me stiffly, and
stalked majestically to bed.