"It’s my ain pairn! It’s Maister Ronald! Oich! oich! Got tam! I’m creetin’ mair like a bit giglet o’ a lassie, than a teuch auld carle that’s come through sae muckle! Gude pe thankit we hae met at last, Maister Ronald! I have been wandering to meet ye through many a queer place; but sair and sad are the news I hae to tell ye,—sad and sair indeed! So joost prepare yersel for the warst!"
"I suppose you would speak of my father?" said Ronald with a quivering lip.
"Aich, ay! ta laird, ta laird! Aich, ay! Got pless us!" replied the vassal, bursting again into tears, which he endeavoured in vain to hide by burying his head in the folds of his tattered plaid; while Stuart half reclined on Alice’s shoulder, and turned aside, deeply touched with the old man’s sorrow,—for grief, like joy, is infectious. "Ay; I wad speak o’ the laird, puir man! an’ prood he wad hae peen to see his only son coming home frae the wars an’ devildoms a stoot an’ handsome chield, wi’ a proon face, and a hand hardened wi’ the hilt o’ the proad-sword. But, ochone-aree! he’s low aneuch the day, an’ mony a pretty man tat followed him far awa’ ower the wide and trackless seas to the stranger’s cauld an’ meeserable country!"
"Poor, dear old man!" said Alice, while she pressed Ronald’s hand to compose him, as the piper was speaking.
"I have sad news to tell you, too, Iverach," said he. "Poor Evan Bean,—Evan with the fair hair, is no more! I find this is to be a sorrowful meeting, Donald; for I have lost my father, and you your only son."
The old man smote himself on the forehead, and reeled back giddily as if struck, by a blow; but he almost immediately recovered. He stared wildly at the speaker for a moment, and then said, with strange calmness,
"I never again expeckit to pehauld him, for auld Shanet tauld me his weird; and Shanet never spoke in vain, nor tauld an untrue tale. Her father was a taischatr. She said he wad return nae mair,—that he was doomed! The words were hard to pelieve; put I mourned for him then as one that was deid and awa’. Oich! I thought the pang was ower. Put—put, O Maister Ronald! my puir Evan,—and whar was he killed?"
"At Toulouse, Donald—at Toulouse, where we gained a signal victory over France. He died bravely, like his comrades, for all were brave alike: I laid him with my own hands in the church-yard of Muret. But for pity’s sake, Donald, tell me of my father, and the fate of the Lochisla people, and then I will tell you more of your son, who, as a token of remembrance, has sent you the clasp which fastened the green feather of his bonnet. Miss Lisle will give it when you are more composed. Come; take courage, Donald, and tell us your story. There are none here but old friends, who have often danced to the sound of your pipes, and shall yet again,—ay, next month, and in the old hall of Lochisla too!"