When she had ended, Mrs. Ross came over to him and said, “That is a great compliment to you.”

And he answered, simply, “I have never heard any singing like that.”

Then young Mr. Ogilvie—­whose existence, by-the-way, he had entirely and most ungratefully forgotten—­came up to the piano, and began to talk in a very pleasant and amusing fashion to Miss White.  She was turning over the leaves of the book before her, and Macleod grew angry with this idle interference.  Why should this lily-fingered jackanapes, whom a man could wind round a reel and throw out of window, disturb the rapt devotion of this beautiful Saint Cecilia?

She struck a firmer chord; the bystanders withdrew a bit; and of a sudden it seemed to him that all the spirit of all the clans was ringing in the proud fervor of this fragile girl’s voice.  Whence had she got this fierce Jacobite passion that thrilled him to the very finger-tips?

    “I’ll to Lochiel, and Appin, and kneel to them,
     Down by Lord Murray and Roy of Kildarlie: 
    Brave Mackintosh, he shall fly to the field with them;
     These are the lads I can trust wi’ my Charlie!”

Could any man fail to answer?  Could any man die otherwise than gladly if he died with such an appeal ringing in his ears?  Macleod did not know there was scarcely any more volume in this girl’s voice now than when she was singing the plaintive wail that preceded it:  it seemed to him that there was the strength of the tread of armies in it, and a challenge that could rouse a nation.

    “Down through the Lowlands, down wi’ the Whigamore,
     Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them rarely! 
    Ronald and Donald, drive on wi’ the broad claymore
     Over the neck o’ the foes o’ Prince Charlie! 
    Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee,
     King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!”

She shut the book, with a light laugh, and left the piano.  She came over to where Macleod sat.  When he saw that she meant to speak to him, he rose and stood before her.

“I must ask your pardon,” said she, smiling, “for singing two Scotch songs, for I know the pronunciation is very difficult.”

He answered with no idle compliment.

“If Tearlach ban og, as they used to call him, were alive now,” said he—­and indeed there was never any Stuart of them all, not even the Fair Young Charles himself, who looked more handsome than this same Macleod of Dare who now stood before her—­“you would get him more men to follow him than any flag or standard he ever raised.”

She cast her eyes down.

Mrs. Ross’s guests began to leave.

“Gertrude,” said she, “will you drive with me for half an hour—­the carriage is at the door?  And I know the gentlemen want to have a cigar in the shade of Kensington Gardens:  they might come back and have a cup of tea with us.”

But Miss White had some engagement; she and her father left together; and the young men followed them almost directly, Mrs. Ross saying that she would be most pleased to see Sir Keith Macleod any Tuesday or Thursday afternoon he happened to be passing, as she was always at home on these days.