s
if you were speaking before kings?' And now there is the castle, and
there wass many people living here when they could build that."

It was, in truth, one of those circular forts the date of which has
given rise to endless conjecture and discussion. Perched up on a hill,
it overlooked a number of deep and narrow valleys that ran landward,
while the other side of the hill sloped down to the sea-shore. It was a
striking object, this tumbling mass of dark stones standing high over
the green hollows and over the light plain of the sea. Was there not
here material for another sketch for Sheila? While Lavender had gone
away over the heights and hollows to choose his point of view a rough
and ready luncheon had been spread out in the wagonette, and when he
returned, perspiring and considerably blown, he found old Mackenzie
measuring out equal portions of peat-water and whisky, Duncan flicking
the enormous "clegs" from off the horses' necks, Ingram trying to
persuade Sheila to have some sherry out of a flask he carried, and
everybody in very good spirits over such an exciting event as a roadside
luncheon on a summer forenoon.

The King of Borva had by this time become excellent friends with the
young stranger who had ventured into his dominions. When the old
gentleman had sufficiently impressed on everybody that he had observed
all necessary precaution in studying the character and inquiring into
the antecedents of Lavender, he could not help confessing to a sense of
lightness and vivacity that the young man seemed to bring with him and
shed around him. Nor was this matter of the sketches the only thing that
had particularly recommended Lavender to the old man. Mackenzie had a
most distinct dislike to Gaelic songs. He could not bear the monotonous
melancholy of them. When Sheila, sitting by herself, would sing these
strange old ballads of an evening, he would suddenly enter the room,
probably find her eyes filled with tears, and then he would in his
inmost heart devote the whole of Gaelic minstrelsy and all its authors
to the infernal gods. Why should people be for ever saddening themselves
with the stories of other folks' misfortunes? It was bad enough for
those poor people, but they had borne their sorrows and died, and were
at peace. Surely it was better that we should have songs about
ourselves--drinking or fighting, if you like--to keep up the spirits, to
lighten the serious cares of life, and drown for a while the
re