ke an echo, there came from somewhere below a
piteous yell, long-drawn and wild, and doleful as the strains of the
pipes.

The effect was magical. The old man ceased playing, his face grew
distorted, and he stamped furiously upon the floor.

"It's tat Sneeshing," he cried, laying down the pipes and making a
snatch at his dirk, but only to thrust it back, dart at a great stone
which had fallen in from the side of the window, and, seizing it, whirl
it up and dash it out of the broken opening down into the court where
the dog was howling.

There was a crash, a snapping, wailing howl, and then all was silent.

"She hopes she has killed ta tog," cried the old man, as he gathered up
his pipes again, and once more began to march up and down and blow.

The fierce burst of tempestuous rage and the accompanying actions were
not without their effect upon Max, who shrank back now helpless and
aghast, staring at the old piper, whose face grew smoother again, as he
gave his visitor an encouraging smile and played away with all his
might.

Would it never end--that weary, weary march--that long musical journey?
It was in a minor key, and anything more depressing it was impossible to
conceive. Like the pieces played by WS Gilbert's piper, there was
nothing in it resembling an air, but Donald played on and on right to
the bitter end, when once more Max began to breathe, and again he
said,--

"Thank you."

"She hasn't tone yet," said Donald, smiling. "She does not often ket a
young chentleman like yersel' who lo'es ta coot music, and she'll keep
on playing to ye all tay. Ye shall noo hae something lively."

Before Max could speak, the old man blew away, and wailed and burred out
what was probably intended for "Maggie Lauder;" but this was changed
into "Tullochgorum," and back again, with frills, and puckers, and bows,
and streamers, formed of other airs, used to decorate what was evidently
meant for a grand _melange_ to display the capabilities of the national
instrument.

Just when this wonderful stream of maddening notes was at its highest
pitch, and Max Blande was at his lowest, and feeling as if he would like
to throw himself down upon the floor and cry, he became aware of the
fact that Kenneth and Scoodrach were up above, gazing down at him from
the ruined wall on the side where the chamber was roofless.

Old Donald was right below them and could not see, even had he been less
intent and out of his musical dreaming,