nly way for us if we
are to be off this unwholesome countryside by the mouth of the night."

It is likely we would have taken him at his word, and have risen and
gone on his way to the east, where the narrowing of the loch showed that
it was close on its conclusion; but the Stewart took from his knapsack
some viands that gave a frantic edge to our appetite and compelled us to
stay and eat.

The day was drawing to its close, the sun, falling behind us, was
pillowed on clouds of a rich crimson. For the first time, we noticed the
signs of the relaxation of the austere season in the return of bird and
beast to their familiar haunts. As the sun dipped the birds came out
to the brae-side to catch his last ray, as they ever love to do. Whaups
rose off the sand, and, following the gleam upon the braes, ascended
from slope to slope, and the plover followed too, dipping his feet
in the golden tide receding. On little fir-patches mounted numerous
blackcock of sheeny feather, and the owls began to hoot in the wood
beyond.

CHAPTER XXII.--DAME DUBH.

We had eaten to the last crumb, and were ready to be going, when again I
asked Gordon what had come over Argile.

"I'll tell you that," said he, bitterly; but as he began, some wildfowl
rose in a startled flight to our right and whirred across the sky.

"There's some one coming," said M'Iver; "let us keep close together."

From where the wildfowl rose, the Dame Dubh, as we called the old woman
of Carnus, came in our direction, half-running, half-walking through the
snow. She spied us while she was yet a great way off, stopped a second
as one struck with an arrow, then continued her progress more eagerly
than ever, with high-piped cries and taunts at us.

"O cowards!" she cried; "do not face Argile, or the glens you belong
to. Cowards, cowards, Lowland women, Glencoe's full of laughter at your
disgrace!"

"Royal's my race, I'll not be laughed at!" cried Stewart.

"They cannot know of it already in Glencoe!" said M'Iver, appalled.

"Know it!" said the crone, drawing nearer and with still more frenzy;
"Glencoe has songs on it already. The stench from Invcrlochy's in
the air; it's a mock in Benderloch and Ardgour, it's a nightmare in
Glenurchy, and the women are keening on the slopes of Cladich. Cowards,
cowards, little men, cowards! all the curses of Conan on you and the
black rocks; die from home, and Hell itself reject you!"

We stood in front of her in a group, slack