I am sorry thatI am not a Celtic bard, and that I must content myself with prosaicallysaying that Allan was handsome, and that the Highland garb which hewore--perhaps the most romantic of all costumes--well became him.
Reader, did ever you run down a mountain-side? I can tell you that itis glorious fun. You must know your mountain well though, and be sureno precipices are in your way. Having made certain of this, off you go,just as Allan and his hound went now, with wild skips, and hops, andjumps; it is not running, it is positive kangarooing, and when you doleave the ground in a leap, you think you will never touch it again.But no fear must dwell in your heart during this mad race. Oncecommenced, nothing can stop your wild career, till you find yourself atthe foot and on level ground; and even then you have to run a goodlydistance to expend the impulse that carried you downwards, or else youwill tumble. But when you have stopped at last, and gazed upwards, "Isit possible," you say to yourself, "that I can have descended from sucha height in so short a space of time?"
I do not know whether Bran or his master was at the foot of the mountainfirst, but I do happen to know that they both disappeared in a wreath ofsnow as soon as they got there, and that _both_ of them emergedtherefrom laughing. After that, Allan McGregor sloped his gun andwalked on more sedately, as became the chief of Arrandoon.
And now he approached the old castle, which looked ever so much higherand more imposing as one stood beneath it. He fired both barrels of hisgun in the air, and the sound reverberated from hill and crag, rollingfar away over the loch itself in a thousand echoes, as if the fairieswere engaged at platoon-firing. Bran barked, and his bark was re-echoedtoo, not only from the rocks around, but from the interior of the castlewalls. This last, I must tell you, was an Irish echo; it was no ghostlyrecoil of Bran's own voice, but the genuine outcome from canine lungs;and lo! yonder come the owners of them, pouring over the bridge, aperfect hairy hurricane, to welcome Bran and his master home. TwoHighland collies, a lordly Saint Bernard, a whole pack of what lookedlike stable brooms, but were in reality Skye terriers, and last, but notleast, Bran's old mother.
When the hubbub and din were somewhat settled, and the greetings over,Allan proceeded to cross the bridge, and McBain, his foster-father,advanced with a kindly smile to meet him.
I must introduce McBain to the reader without more ado--that is, I mustgive you some idea of his appearance; as to his character, that willdevelop itself as the story proceeds. He was about the middle height,then, and clad, like Allan, in the Highland dress of McGregor tartan--or_plaid_, as the English and Lowland Scotch erroneously call it. Thoughfar from old, McBain was grey in beard and furrowed in brow; yet thereare but few young men, I ween, who, had they ventured on a tussle withthat broad-shouldered, wiry Highlander, would have cared to repeat theexperiment for a week to come at least.
This was Allan's foster-father. He had been in the family since he wasa child, and his ancestors, like himself, had been chief retainers tothe lairds of Arrandoon. He was a right faithful fellow, and aScotchman in everything, thinking no people so good or brave or powerfulas his own, nor any other country in the world worth living in; and fromthis you will readily infer that he had never mixed very much with thepeoples of the earth. This is true; and still he had travelled when ayoung man, but it was towards the desolate regions of the North Pole.It was pride had taken him there--a cross word that his father had saidto him, and young McBain had gone to sea. Only, a few years of thewild, rough life he had led on the icy ocean around Spitzbergen hadtaught him that there was no place like home, so he returned to it andreceived his father's pardon, and, later on, his blessing.
"Aha, Allan, boy!" cried McBain; "so you've got back at last. Indeed--indeed we thought you were lost, and Bran and all. What sport, boy--what sport?"
"There is the bag," said Allan, "and precious little you'll find in it."
"Ah! But, boy, half a loaf is better than no bread. When I was inSpitzbergen--"
"There, there," said Allan, interrupting him, "never mind aboutSpitzbergen now; but tell me, have Ralph and Rory come, there's a goodold foster-father."
"Ralph and Rory come!" replied McBain, with an air of surprise. "Why,they are English, Allan; and do you think they'd leave the hospitalityand good cheer of an Inverness hotel, to visit Glentroom in such weatheras this? It _isn't_ likely!"
Allan was silent; he had turned away his head and was gazing skywards,with something very like a frown on his face.
McBain laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "You are piqued, son," hesaid; "you are angry. There is the proud, defiant look of the McGregorchiefs on your countenance. Let it pass, Allan; let it pass. Do notforget for a moment what the McBains have ever been to your people.Have they not served them well, and fought and bled for them too? Werethey not ever the first at the castle walls, when the fiery cross wassent through the glen? Do not forget that I have been a truefoster-father to you, my son? Haven't I taught you all you know? on thehills, on the lochs, and by the river? and would you get angry with theold man because he says your guests will hardly dare turn up to-night?"
Allan passed his hand quickly across his brow, as if to brush away acloud.
"No, no!" he replied; "I'm not angry. Only--only you don't know myEnglish friends; you will alter your opinion of them when you do. Theyare brave and manly fellows, McBain. Ralph rowed stroke oar in his boatat Cambridge, and Rory is the best bowler in the three royal counties."
McBain laughed.
"Allan! Allan!" he said; "think you for a moment they could do what Ihave taught you to do? Could either of them cross Loch Kreenan in acobble when the waves are houses high, when their white crests cut theface like a Highland dirk? Could they bring the eagle from the cloudswith a single bullet, or the windhover from the sky? Could they grapplewith and gralloch a wounded red deer? Nay; and even if they could, ifthey were as brave and strong and fierce as the wild cat of themountain, it would take all their strength and all their courage to facethe storm that is brewing to-night. See, Allan, the clouds are alreadysettling down on the hills, the peak of Melfourvounie is buried in mist,there is a mournful sough in the rising wind, and ere five hours areover the boddach will be shrieking among the crags of Drontheim."
[Boddach--A spirit, believed in by many, who takes the shape of an oldman, sometimes seen by night in the woods, but always heard shriekingamong the rocks that he haunts whenever storms are raging.]
"All the more reason," cried Allan, talking rapidly, "that I should goand meet them. Tell mother and sister I have gone a little way down theglen to meet Ralph and Rory, and we'll all be back to dinner. Bran andOscar will go with me. But stay, don't you hear the bagpipes? It isPeter, and very likely my friends are with him."
The sound came nearer and nearer, and presently out from the shadows ofthe dark pine-wood strode Peter--all alone.
Both went quickly to meet him, and Peter's story was soon told.
"The Sassenach gentlemans," he said, "had both left Inverness with himin the morning, and fine young gentlemans they were, and might have beenHighlanders for the matter of that. But och and och! they _would_ takethe high road for sake of the scenery, bless you, and he had to take thelow; but for all that they ought to have been at the castle hours andhours ago."
Young Allan and his foster-father said never a word; they did buttighten their hands, and glance for a moment in each other's eyes, yetboth understood that the simple action implied a promise on either sideto stand together, shoulder to shoulder, whatever might happen.
Presence of mind in emergency is a gift that seems peculiar to theScottish Highlander. Born in a mountain land, and accustomed from hisvery infancy to face every danger in hill or glen, in flood or fell orfield, his true character is never better seen than in times of danger.McBain waited for a few minutes in the castle courtyard until Allan, whohad hurried away, should have time to communicate with his mother andsister; then he struck a gong, and while yet its thunders werereverberating among the hills, he was surrou
nded by every servant in theplace, old Janet, the cook, not excepted; then the orders that fellcalmly and yet quickly from his lips showed at once that he was masterof the situation.
"Janet, old woman," he said, "run away to the house like a good creatureand get ready the dinner; the best that ever you made, do ye hear?Peter, run, lad, and get a rope, the crooks, and lanterns. Here, takethe chief's gun. Yes, certainly, bring the bagpipes, and don't forgetthe flask. Donald Ogg, get the pony put in the trap, with rugs andplaids galore. Take the high road to Inverness and follow us soon.Thank you, Peter. Now for the dogs. No, no; not a pack. Back withthem all to the kennel save Oscar, Bran, and Kooran the collie. Here weare, Allan, boy, all ready for a start."
And in less time than
The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure Page 2