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.




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