From afar you might perhaps smell the peat reek as he worked his primitive Still, but unless the smoke of his fire betrayed him, or you knew the secret of his whereabouts, it had been hard to detect the existence of Donald’s hut, so skilfully was it constructed, so gently did it blend into the surrounding landscape.  Even if it were accidentally come upon, there was nothing immediately visible which could excite suspicion.  At a bend in the stream, where the banks were steep, and the burn tumbled noisily over a little linn, dashing past the rowan trees that clung there amongst its rocks, and plunging headlong into a deep black pool, stood Donald’s hut.  Little better than a “lean-to” against a huge rock, it seemed; at one end a rude doorway, filled by a crazy door that stood ajar, walls of turf, windowless and heather-thatched, innocent of chimney, but with an opening that allowed the smoke of his fires to steal up the face of the rock before it dispersed into the air.  That was all that might be seen at first glance—­that and a stack of peat near the door.  Inside, there were a couple of rough tables, made of boards, one or two even rougher seats, a quantity of heather in a corner, tops upper-most, to serve as a bed; farther “ben,” some bulky things more than half hidden in the deep gloom of that part of the hut that was farthest from the door and from the light of the fire.  And over and through everything an all-pervading reek of peat that brought water to the eyes of those not inured to such an atmosphere, and caused them to cough grievously.  To the Highlander it was nothing; he had been born in such an atmosphere, and had lived in it most of his days.  But to visitors it was trying, till Donald’s Dew of Cheviot rendered them indifferent to the minor ills of life.

One day, as Donald was busily engaged with his Still, a charge for which he was just about starting, there came to the door of his hut a man leading a horse from which he had just dismounted.  This man did not wait for an invitation to enter, but, having made fast his reins to the branch of a neighbouring rowan tree, walked in and sat down, with a mere “Good day.”

“A ferry goot tay,” politely replied Donald.  But he was not altogether happy over the advent of this stranger; there was a something in the manner of the man that roused suspicion.  However, there he was.  It remained only to make the best of it, and to be careful not to show that he suspected anything.  Perhaps the man was harmless after all; and, in any case, it might be just as well to pretend that he was not possessed of any great knowledge of English.  There was nothing to be gained by talking.

“Have ye not such a thing as a drop of spirits in the house?” inquired the stranger.  “I’m tired with my ride.”

Donald “wasna aaltogether sure.  Mebbes perhaps there micht pe a wee drappie left in ta bottle.”  But there was no dearth of fluid in the bottle that, with Highland hospitality, he set before the strange man, along with cheese and oatcake.  Donald took a liberal “sup” himself, and sat down, purposely near the door, just in case of any possible coming trouble, and out of the corner of his eye he kept a wary gaze on his uninvited guest, who had also helped himself liberally to the whisky, and was already making a great onslaught on the cheese and oatcake.