Tearlach laughed in her face. "Boy or man," said he, "look at me! north, east, south, and west, where is the one to beat me? Macruimen has the name, but there were pipers before Macruimen, and pipers will come after him."
"It's maybe as you say," said Paruig. "The stuff's in you, and what is in must out; but give me _cothrom na Feinne_, and old as I am, with Finne's chance, and that's fair play, I can maybe make you crow less crouse. Are ye for trying?"
"I am at the training of a new chanter-reed," said Tearlach; "but let it be when you will."
They fixed a day, and went out to play against each other for glory, and so it befell that on this day Paruig Dali was playing "The Glen is Mine" and "Bodaich nam Briogais" in a way to make stounding hearts.
Giorsal snapped her fingers in her stepson's face when her husband closed the _crunluadh_ of his _piobaireachd._
"Can you better it, bastard?" snarled she.
"Here goes for it, whatever!" said Tear-lach, and over his back went the banner with its boar's head sewn on gold. A pretty lad, by the cross! clean-cut of limb and light of foot, supple of loin, with the toss of the shoulder that never a decent piper lacked. The women who had been at the linn leaned on each other all in the soft larch-scented day, and looked at him out of deep eyes; the men on the heather arose and stood nigher.
"Is comadh leam's comadh leam, cogadh na sithe, Marbhar 'sa chogadh na crochar's an t-sith mi."
"Peace or war!" cried Giorsal, choking in anger, to her man--"peace or war! the black braggart! it's an asp ye have for a son, goodman!"
The lad's fingers danced merry on the chanter, and the shiver of something to come fell on all the folk around. The old hills sported with the prancing tune; Dun Corrbhile tossed it to Drimfem, and Drimfern sent it leaping across the flats of Kilmune to the green corries of Lecknamban. "Love, love, the old tune; come and get flesh!" rasped a crow to his mate far off on misty Ben Bhreac, and the heavy black wings flapped east. The friendly wind forgot to dally with the pine-tuft and the twanging bog-myrtle, the plash of Aora in its brown linn was the tinkle of wine in a goblet. "Peace or war, peace or war; come which will, we care not," sang the pipe-reeds, and there was the muster and the march, hot-foot rush over the rotting rain-wet moor, the jingle of iron, the dunt of pike and targe, the choked roar of hate and hunger, batter and slash and fall, and behind, the old, old feud with Appin!