been left here so that
it might be convenient to the mainland. It has been built by Malcolm
MacLeod, the leader of all the people in these parts. He thinks
himself the most famous boat-builder in the world, so Allaster has at
least fulfilled one part of his agreement, and doubtless believes this
to be the finest craft afloat."

"It is indeed a beautiful barge," assented the king, admiring the
graceful lines of the ship. "But what is that long-haired, bare-legged
cateran screaming about with his arms going like a windmill? The crowd
evidently appreciates his efforts, for they are rapturous in their
applause."

MacDonald held up his hand and the oarsmen paused, while the boat
gently glided towards the shore. In the still air, across the water,
the impassioned Gaelic words came clearly to the voyagers.

"He is saying," translated MacDonald, after a few moments listening,
"that the MacLeods are like the eternal rocks of Skye, and their
enemies like the waves of the sea. Their enemies dash against them and
they remain unmoved, while the wave is shattered into infinitesimal
spray. So do the MacLeods defy and scorn all who come against them."

The king shrugged his shoulders.

"The man forgets that the sea also is eternal, and that it ultimately
wears away the cliff. This appears to be an incitement towards war,
then?"

"Oh, not so," replied MacDonald. "The man is one of their poets, and
he is reciting an epic he has written, doubtless in praise of
Malcolm's boat-building."

"God save us!" cried the king. "Have we then poets in Skye?"

"The whole of the Highlands is a land of poetry, your majesty,"
affirmed MacDonald drawing himself up proudly, "although the very poor
judges of the art in Stirling may not be aware of the fact."

The king laughed heartily at this.

"I must tell that to Davie Lyndsay," he said. "But here we have
another follower of the muse who has taken the place of the first.
Surely nowhere else is the goddess served by votaries so unkempt. What
is this one saying?"

"He says that beautiful is the western sky when the sun sinks beneath
the wave, but more beautiful still is the cheek of the Rose of Skye,
the daughter of their chieftain."

"Ah, that is better and more reassuring. I think either of us, Jamie,
would rather be within sight of the smiles of the Rose of Skye than
within reach of the claymores of her kinsmen."

By this time the assemblage on shore became aware that visitors were
appr