be likely to sink into his soul as deep as he cared to have it,
without any preparation, but that sort of talk wouldn't do for me. I
didn't want to be gliding o'er the smooth waters of Loch Katrine, and
have him asking me who the girl was who rowed her shallop to the silver
strand, and the end of it was that I made him sit up until a quarter of
two o'clock in the morning while I read the "Lady of the Lake" to him.
I had read it before and he had not, but I hadn't got a quarter through
before he was just as willing to listen as I was to read. And when I
got through I was in such a glow that Jone said he believed that all
the blood in my veins had turned to hot Scotch.

I didn't pay any attention to this, and after going to the window and
looking out at the Gaelic moon, which was about half full and rolling
along among the clouds, I turned to Jone and said, "Jone, let's sing
'Scots wha ha',' before we go to bed."

"If we do roar out that thing," said Jone, "they will put us out on the
curbstone to spend the rest of the night."

"Let's whisper it, then," said I; "the spirit of it is all I want. I
don't care for the loudness."

"I'd be willing to do that," said Jone, "if I knew the tune and a few
of the words."

"Oh, bother!" said I; and when I got into bed I drew the clothes over
my head and sang that brave song all to myself. Doing it that way the
words and tune didn't matter at all, but I felt the spirit of it, and
that was all I wanted, and then I went to sleep.

The next morning we went to Callander by train, and there we took a
coach for Trossachs. It is hardly worth while to say we went on top,
because the coaches here haven't any inside to them, except a hole
where they put the baggage. We drove along a beautiful road with
mountains and vales and streams, and the driver told us the name of
everything that had a name, which he couldn't help very well, being
asked so constant by me. But I didn't feel altogether satisfied, for we
hadn't come to anything quotable, and I didn't like to have Jone sit
too long without something happening to stir up some of the "Lady of
the Lake" which I had pumped into his mind the day before, and so keep
it fresh.

Before long, however, the driver pointed out the ford of Coilantogle.
The instant he said this I half jumped up, and, seizing Jone by the
arm, I cried, "Don't you remember? This is the place where the Knight
of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James, fought Roderick Dhu!" And then