Few more beautiful passes are to be seen than Leny. The dashing stream which runs in a wooded cleft below the road is exactly what one expects a Scottish stream to be. The brown peat-water breaks in cascades over huge grey weather-worn stones, or lies in deep clear pools. The irregularities of its course reveal new beauties at every turn: the dripping green ferns, for ever sprinkled with the spray, hang quivering over the agate depths, and the emerald moss, saturated like a sponge, softens the sharp angles of stones. Tufts of free-growing heather, large as bushes, add colour to the scene, and the slender white stems of the birches rise gracefully amid the gnarled alders and dark-needled firs. The Falls of Leny are reached by a footpath from the road.
Angus, carrying the cross, was confronted by the stream, which divided him from the chapel of St. Bride, whose site is now marked by a small graveyard just where the water issues from Loch Lubnaig. He had to plunge in, panting and hot as he was.
He stumbled twice—the foam splashed high, With hoarser swell the stream raced by.
Then, gaining the shore, he faced the chapel entrance just as a gay crowd came forth escorting a newly-wedded pair.
Here was Coilantogle Ford where King James V. fought Roderick Dhu.]
In rude but glad procession came Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; And plaided youth with jest and jeer, Which snooded maiden would not hear.
Scott does not tell us why the dripping youth selected the bridegroom out of all the crowd to carry on the brand, but doubtless there were reasons: it was possibly his right as a senior in the clan. Still, it is little wonder that the unfortunate man, who dared not refuse, yet hesitated.
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride Until he saw the starting tear Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; Then trusting not a second look, In haste he sped him up the brook.
Mingled with love’s impatience came The manly thirst for martial fame.
Stung by such thoughts, o’er bank and brae Like fire from flint he glanced away.
The railway crosses the stream about this point, and continues up the west side of the loch, while the road keeps on the right, or eastern, side. The rail passes Laggan Farm, said to be the birthplace of Rob’s Amazonian wife, Helen, who takes a part only second to himself in the reader’s imagination. Passing along, therefore, on either side we come, soon after the head of the loch, to bonny little Strathyre, lying amid its great hills, which are flushed as if with fire when the setting sun catches the sweep of the heather in season.