"God's splendour! but he can play too," said the piper's son, with his head areel to the fine tripling.
Then Paruig pushed the bag further into his oxter, and the tune changed. He laid the ground of "Bodaich nam Briogais," and such as knew the story saw the "carles with the breeks" broken and flying before Glenurchy's thirsty swords, far north of Morven, long days of weary march through spoiled glens.
"It's fine playing, I'll allow," said the blind man's son, standing below a saugh-tree with the bag of his bannered pipes in the crook of his arm. He wore the dull tartan of the Diarmaids, and he had a sprig of gall in his bonnet, for he was in Black Duncan's tail. "Son of Paruig Dali," said the Chief seven years ago come Martinmas, "if you're to play like your father, there's but Dunvegan for you, and the schooling of Patrick Macruimen." So Tearlach went to Skye--cold isle of knives and caves--and in the college of Macruimen he learned the _piob-mhor_. Morning and evening, and all day between, he fingered the _feadan_ or the full set--gathering and march, massacre and moaning, and the stately salute. Where the lusty breeze comes in salt from Vatemish across Loch Vegan, and the purple loom of Uist breaks the sunset's golden bars, he stood on the braes over against Borearaig and charmed the grumbling tide. And there came a day that he played "The Lament of the Harp-Tree," with the old years of sturdy fight and strong men all in the strain of it, and Patrick Macruimen said, "No more, lad; go home: Lochow never heard another like you." As a cock with its comb uncut, came the stripling from Skye.
"Father," he had said, "you play not ill for a blind man, but you miss the look on the men's faces, and that's half the music. Forbye, you are old, and your fingers are slow on the grace-notes. Here's your own flesh and blood can show you fingering there was never the like of anywhere east the Isles."
The stepmother heard the brag. "_A pheasain!_" she snapped, with hate in her peat-smoked face. "Your father's a man, and you are but a boy with no heart for a long day. A place in Black Duncan's tail, with a gillie to carry your pipes and knapsack, is not, mind ye, all that's to the making of a piper."