of Thacker and Mason, was one of the guests.  But there was more of gloom than of gaiety around the festive board.  All wished well to the young chief, but the very best of his friends could think of nothing cheerful to say to him.  His enterprise had been a complete failure; the family tree of Clanranald the Dauntless had refused to take root in a strange land the glory had gone from it for ever, and there was nothing to celebrate in song or story.

Other men from the Highlands failed to win the smiles of fortune in Gippsland.  At home, notwithstanding their tribal feuds, they held their own for two thousand years against the Roman and Saxon, the Dane and the Norman.  Only one hundred and fifty years ago (it seems now almost incredible) they nearly scared the Hanoverian dynasty from the throne of England, and even yet, though scattered throughout the British Empire, they are neither a fallen nor a falling race.

Glengarry returned to his tent early, and then the buying and selling of the five hundred cows became the subject of conversation; the whisky circulated, and Long Mason observed that unfriendly looks began to be directed towards himself.  He was an Englishman, a Southron, and it was a foul shame and dishonour that such as he should pay a Highland chief only twenty-seven shillings and sixpence for beasts that had cost ten pounds each.  That was not the way in the good old days when the hardy men of the north descended from the mountains with broadsword and shield, lifted the cattle of the Saxon, and drove them to their homes in the glens.

The fervid temper of the Gael grew hotter at the thought of the rank injustice which had been done, and it was decided that Long Mason should be drowned in the inlet.  He protested against the decision with vigour, and apparently with reason.  He said: 

“I did not buy the cattle at all.  Glengarry sold them to Thacker and my brother in Sydney, and I only came over to take delivery of them.  What wrong have I done?”

But the reasoning of the prosaic Englishman was thrown to the winds: 

“Ye’ve done everything wrong.  Ye should hae gin ten pund sterling apiece for the coos, and not twenty-sen and saxpence.  It’s a pity yer brither, and Thacker, and MacFarlane are no here the nicht, and we’d droon them, too.”

Four strong men, shouting in Gaelic the war-cry of Sheriffmuir, “Revenge, revenge, revenge to-day, mourning to-morrow!” seized the long limbs of the unfortunate Mason, and in spite of his struggles bore him towards the beach.  The water near the margin was shallow, so they waded in until it was deep enough for their purpose.  There was a piercing cry, “Help! murder! murder!” John Campbell heard it, but it was not safe for a Campbell to stand between a Macdonnell and his revenge.  However, Captain Davy and Pateley Jim came out of their huts to see what was the matter, and they waded after the Highlanders.  Each seized a man by the collar and downhauled.  There was a sudden whirlpool, a splashing and a spluttering, as all the five men went under and drank the brine.