And now her youngest—­her Benjamin, her best-beloved—­he was going away from her too.  It was not enough that the big deer forest, the last of the possessions of the Macleods of Dare, had been kept intact for him, when the letting of it to a rich Englishman would greatly have helped the failing fortunes of the family; it was not enough that the poor people about, knowing Lady Macleod’s wishes, had no thought of keeping a salmon spear hidden in the thatch of their cottages.  Salmon and stag could no longer bind him to the place.  The young blood stirred.  And when he asked her what good things came of being a stay-at-home, what could she say?

Suddenly old Hamish threw wide the oaken doors at the end of the hall, and there was a low roar like the roaring of lions.  And then a young lad, with the pipes proudly perched on his shoulder, marched in with a stately step, and joyous and shrill arose the Salute.  Three times he marched round the long and narrow hall, finishing behind Keith Macleod’s chair.  The young man turned to him.

“It was well played, Donald,” said he, in the Gaelic; “and I will tell you that the Skye College in the old times never turned out a better pupil.  And will you take a glass of whiskey now, or a glass of claret?  And it is a great pity your hair is red, or they would call you Donull Dubh, and people would say you were the born successor of the last of the MacCruimins.”

At this praise—­imagine telling a piper lad that he was a fit successor of the MacCruimins, the hereditary pipers of the Macleods—­the young stripling blushed hot; but he did not forget his professional dignity for all that.  And he was so proud of his good English that he replied in that tongue.

“I will take a glass of the claret wine, Sir Keith,” said he.

Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, rimmed with silver, and having the triple-towered castle of the Macleods engraved on it, and filled it with wine.  He handed it to the lad.

“I drink your health, Lady Macleod,” said he, when he had removed his cap; “and I drink your health, Miss Macleod; and I drink your health, Sir Keith; and I would have a lighter heart this night if I was going with you away to England.”

It was a bold demand.

“I cannot take you with me, Donald; the Macleods have got out of the way of taking their piper with them now.  You must stay and look after the dogs.”

“But you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith.”

“Yes, I am.  I must make sure of having one friend with me in the south.”

“And I think I would be better than a collie,” muttered the lad to himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way toward the door, his cap still in his hand.