“Eh, the bonny man!  The bonny man!” murmured the laird.

But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird:  his jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset.  He was dead.

Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was at rest.

He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.

“Whaur are ye for?” asked Malcolm.  “I’m gaein’ for Mistress Cat’nach,” answered the boy.

“Gang yer w’ys than, an’ dinna haud the deid waitin’,” said Malcolm with a shudder.

The boy cast a look of dismay behind him and galloped off.

The snow still fell and the night was dark.  Malcolm spent nearly two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs. Catanach was not to be found.

His road lay down the glen, past Duncan’s cottage, at whose door he dismounted, but he did not find him.  Taking the bridle on his arm, he walked by his horse the rest of the way.  It was about nine o’clock, and the night very dark.  As he neared the house, he heard Duncan’s voice.  “Malcolm, my son!  Will it pe your ownself?” it said.

“It wull that, daddy,” answered Malcolm.

The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him.

“But it’s ower cauld for ye to be sittin’ there i’ the snaw, an’ the mirk tu,” added Malcolm.

“Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her,” returned the seer.  “Ah, my poy! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will pe ketting in too.  This now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta Piple will say, and Tuncan’s pody tat will pe full of ta light.”  Then with suddenly changed tone he said, “Listen, Malcolm, my son!  Shell pe ferry uneasy till you’ll wass pe come home.”

“What’s the maitter noo, daddy?” returned Malcolm.  “Onything wrang aboot the hoose?”

“Something will pe wrong, yes, put she’ll not can tell where.  No, her pody will not pe full of light!  For town here, in ta curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son.  It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo’ her, and shell nefer see plain no more till she’ll pe come pack to her own mountains.”

“The puir laird’s gane back to his,” said Malcolm.  “I won’er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin’ at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae.  He’s mad nae mair, ony gait.”

“How?  Will he pe not tead?  Ta poor lairt!  Ta poor maad lairt!”

“Ay, he’s deid:  maybe that’s what’ll be troublin’ yer sicht, daddy.”

“No, my son.  Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not ta plame of him:  he was coot always, howefer.”

“He wass that, daddy.”

“But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling her speerit.  When she’ll pe take ta pipes to pe amusing herself, and will plow ‘Till an crodh a’ Dhonnaehaidh’ (’Turn the Cows, Duncan’), out will pe come’ Cumhadh an fhir mhoir’ (’The Lament of the Big Man’).  Aal is not well, my son.”