wife died. What is he seeing now? Man, it's weel kenned he has
the second sight at times. Maybe he sees the pit digging for himself.
He's the last of them."

"Who was Great Godfrey?" I asked, rather loudly.

Angus McNeil instantly cut short the "Lament," rose from his chair,
and faced us.

"Aleck McTavish, who have you with you?" he called imperiously.

"My young cousin from the city, Mr. McNeil," said McTavish, with
deference.

"Bring him in. I wish to spoke with you, Aleck McTavish. The young man
that is not acquaint with the name of Great Godfrey McNeil can come
with you. I will be at the great door."

"It's strange-like," said McTavish, as we went to the upper gate. "He
has not asked me inside for near five years. I'm feared his wits is
disordered, by his way of speaking. Mind what you say. Great Godfrey
was most like a god to Angus."

When Angus McNeil met us at the front door I saw he was verily a
giant. Indeed, he was a wee bit more than six and a half feet tall
when he stood up straight. Now he was stooped a little, not with age,
but with consumption,--the disease most fatal to men of mixed white
and Indian blood. His face was dark brown, his features of the Indian
cast, but his black hair had not the Indian lankness. It curled
tightly round his grand head.

Without a word he beckoned us on into the vast withdrawing room.
Without a word he seated himself beside a large oaken centre-table,
and motioned us to sit opposite.

Before he broke silence, I saw that the windows of that great chamber
were hung with faded red damask; that the heads of many a bull moose,
buck, bear, and wolf grinned among guns and swords and claymores from
its walls; that charred logs, fully fifteen feet long, remained in the
fireplace from the last winter's burning; that there were three dim
portraits in oil over the mantel; that the room contained much frayed
furniture, once sumptuous of red velvet; and that many skins of wild
beasts lay strewn over a hard-wood floor whose edges still retained
their polish and faintly gleamed in rays from the red west.

That light was enough to show that two of the oil paintings must be
those of Hector McNeil and his Indian wife. Between these hung one of
a singularly handsome youth with yellow hair.

"Here my father lay dead," cried Angus McNeil, suddenly striking the
table. He stared at us silently for many seconds, then again struck
the table with the side of his clenched fist. "He lay he