“If we do roar out that thing,” said Jone, “they will put us out on the curbstone to spend the rest of the night.”

“Let’s whisper it, then,” said I; “the spirit of it is all I want.  I don’t care for the loudness.”

“I’d be willing to do that,” said Jone, “if I knew the tune and a few of the words.”

“Oh, bother!” said I; and when I got into bed I drew the clothes over my head and sang that brave song all to myself.  Doing it that way the words and tune didn’t matter at all, but I felt the spirit of it, and that was all I wanted, and then I went to sleep.

The next morning we went to Callander by train, and there we took a coach for Trossachs.  It is hardly worth while to say we went on top, because the coaches here haven’t any inside to them, except a hole where they put the baggage.  We drove along a beautiful road with mountains and vales and streams, and the driver told us the name of everything that had a name, which he couldn’t help very well, being asked so constant by me.  But I didn’t feel altogether satisfied, for we hadn’t come to anything quotable, and I didn’t like to have Jone sit too long without something happening to stir up some of the “Lady of the Lake” which I had pumped into his mind the day before, and so keep it fresh.

Before long, however, the driver pointed out the ford of Coilantogle.  The instant he said this I half jumped up, and, seizing Jone by the arm, I cried, “Don’t you remember?  This is the place where the Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz-James, fought Roderick Dhu!” And then without caring who else heard me, I burst out with: 

    “’His back against a rock he bore,
      And firmly placed his foot before: 
      “Come one, come all!  This rock shall fly
      From its firm base as soon as I."’”

“No, madam,” said the driver, politely touching his hat, “that was a mile farther on.  This place is: 

    “’And here his course the chieftain staid,
      Threw down his target and his plaid.’”

“You are right,” said I; and then I began again: 

    “’Then each at once his falchion drew,
      Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
      Each look’d to sun, and stream, and plain,
      As what they ne’er might see again;
      Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
      In dubious strife they darkly closed.’”

I didn’t repeat any more of the poem, though everybody was listening quite respectful without thinking of laughing, and as for Jone, I could see by the way he sat and looked about him that his tinder had caught my spark; but I knew that the thing for me to do here was not to give out but take in, and so, to speak in figures, I drank in the whole of Lake Vannachar, as we drove along its lovely marge until we came to the other end, and the driver said we would now go over the Brigg of Turk.  At this up I jumped and said: 

    “’And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
      The headmost horseman rode alone.’”