e crimsoned many a field with
their blood. Go, put your head under the belt of one of the race of
Dermid, whose children murdered--Yes," she added, with a wild shriek,
"murdered your mother's fathers in their peaceful dwellings in Glencoe!
Yes," she again exclaimed, with a wilder and shriller scream, "I was
then unborn, but my mother has told me--and I attended to the voice
of MY mother--well I remember her words! They came in peace, and were
received in friendship--and blood and fire arose, and screams and
murder!" [See Note 9.--Massacre of Glencoe.]

"Mother," answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, "all
that I have thought over. There is not a drop of the blood of Glencoe
on the noble hand of Barcaldine; with the unhappy house of Glenlyon the
curse remains, and on them God hath avenged it."

"You speak like the Saxon priest already," replied his mother; "will you
not better stay, and ask a kirk from Macallum Mhor, that you may preach
forgiveness to the race of Dermid?"

"Yesterday was yesterday," answered Hamish, "and to-day is to-day. When
the clans are crushed and confounded together, it is well and wise that
their hatreds and their feuds should not survive their independence and
their power. He that cannot execute vengeance like a man, should not
harbour useless enmity like a craven. Mother, young Barcaldine is true
and brave. I know that MacPhadraick counselled him that he should not
let me take leave of you, lest you dissuaded me from my purpose; but he
said, 'Hamish MacTavish is the son of a brave man, and he will not break
his word.' Mother, Barcaldine leads an hundred of the bravest of
the sons of the Gael in their native dress, and with their fathers'
arms--heart to heart--shoulder to shoulder. I have sworn to go with him.
He has trusted me, and I will trust him."

At this reply, so firmly and resolvedly pronounced, Elspat remained
like one thunderstruck, and sunk in despair. The arguments which she had
considered so irresistibly conclusive, had recoiled like a wave from a
rock. After a long pause, she filled her son's quaigh, and presented it
to him with an air of dejected deference and submission.

"Drink," she said, "to thy father's roof-tree, ere you leave it for
ever; and tell me--since the chains of a new King, and of a new chief,
whom your fathers knew not save as mortal enemies, are fastened upon the
limbs of your father's son--tell me how many links you count upon them?"

Hamish