Still there's some relevance to my story in my looks too. Though
I was but a sergeant of pikes (with sons of good families below me, as
privates, mind you), I was very trim and particular about my apparel.
I carried myself with a good chest, as we say,--my features and my leg
speak for themselves. I had sung songs--trifles of my own, foolishly
esteemed, I'm hearing, in many parts of Argile. I'll not deny but I like
to think of that, and to fancy young folks humming my ditties by warm
Ares when I'm maybe in the cold with the divot at my mouth. And I had
told a tale or two--a poor art enough, I'll allow, spoiled by bookcraft
It was a cheery company as you may guess, and at last I was at a display
of our Highland dancing. I see dancing to-day in many places that is not
the thing as I was taught it by the strongest dancer in all Albainn. The
company sat facing me as I stepped it over a couple of sword-blades,
and their backs were to the door. Mackenzie was humming a _port-a-bheul_
with a North Country twang even in his nose, and I was at my last
step when the door opened with no noise and a girl looked in, her eyes
staring hard at me alone, and a finger on her lips for silence. A man of
less discernment would have stopped his dance incontinent and betrayed
the presence of the lady to the others, who never dreamt so interesting
a sight was behind them. But I never let on. I even put an extra
flourish on my conclusion, that came just as the girl backed out at the
door beckoning me to follow her. Two minutes later, while my friends
were bellowing a rough Gaelic chorus, I was out following my lady of
silence up a little stair and into a room below the eaves. There she
narrated to me the plot that we unhappy lads were to be the victims
of. The house was a trap: it was to be surrounded at night, when we had
eaten and drunken over-well, and the sword was our doom arranged for.
The girl told me all this very quietly in the French she learned I was
best master of next to my own Gaelic, and--what a mad thing's the blood
in a youth--all the time I was indifferent to her alarum, and pondering
upon her charms of lip and eye. She died a twelvemonth later in Glogoe
of Silesia, and---- God give her peace!"

"You may save your supplication," said Gordon; "her portion's assigned,
a thing fixed and unalterable, and your prayer is a Popish conceit."

"God give her peace! I'll say it, Master Gordon, and I'll wish it in the
face of every Covenan