warlike echoes in the Oro hills as they had not given
back since the days when they rang to the war-whoop of Huron and
Iroquois braves.

And, indeed, had an army of redskins in war paint and feathers appeared
upon the hill, it is doubtful if it would have created any more
excitement. For, though the Oa was a Highland settlement, the bagpipes
had hitherto been an unknown instrument in the township of Oro. Hard
work and hard times had precluded the indulgence in any such luxury, so
the startled population of the valley witnessed for the first time that
magnificent combination of sight and sound known as a Highland Piper.

Upon Pete Nash the effect was almost disastrous. The expectant host
had been fortifying himself rather copiously against the duties and
trials of the day, and his brain was in no condition to bear any such
strain as the appearance of Fiddlin' Archie put upon it.

At the first sound he rushed into the road, his eyes bulging with
horror, his hands held up as if to ward off a blow. For Peter had once
been a good Catholic and knew he was committing a deadly sin in
harbouring these Orange heretics; and here, surely, were the hosts of
the Evil One, coming with shrieks of wrath to snatch away his guilty
soul in the midst of his iniquity. His distracted wife bounded after
him, a half-washed frying pan in one hand, a dishcloth in the other;
and seeing what was descending upon them she dropped both utensils and
wailed, "Och, the Powers come down, Pater! is it Gabriel's trump, then?"

No one noticed the stricken pair, for all eyes were fixed upon the
advancing column. Right up to the tavern door it marched, and when the
pipes ceased with a final defiant yelp, Big Malcolm, his eyes blazing,
his head erect, stepped forward and addressed the still trembling, but
much relieved, proprietor.

"We will be needing our dinner, Peter," he said very mildly, "for we
would be having a long walk, and mebby some work ahead of us, whatever,
so I hope you will jist be bringin' it on queek."

There was something in the intense politeness of Big Malcolm's tone
that aroused Mr. Nash's worst fears; a MacDonald was never so dangerous
as when he was courteous.

"And is it dinner for all this raft ye'll be after wantin', Malcolm
MacDonald?" he cried in alarm. "Sure, ye know I can't give ye a bite
nor sup the day, man; the byes from the Flats----"

"Whisht yer tongue, Pete Nash!" Big Malcolm's suavity vanished like a
wisp