“I was thinking that,” said Alan.

I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these fighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion.  But when that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with something of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will have been thinking of a very different matter, whateffer.  Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who are baith acclaimed pipers.  It’s an auld dispute which one of ye’s the best.  Here will be a braw chance to settle it.”

“Why, sir,” said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had not so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, “why, sir,” says Alan, “I think I will have heard some sough* of the sort.  Have ye music, as folk say?  Are ye a bit of a piper?”

     * Rumour.

“I can pipe like a Macrimmon!” cries Robin.

“And that is a very bold word,” quoth Alan.

“I have made bolder words good before now,” returned Robin, “and that against better adversaries.”

“It is easy to try that,” says Alan.

Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his principal possession, and to set before his guests a mutton-ham and a bottle of that drink which they call Athole brose, and which is made of old whiskey, strained honey and sweet cream, slowly beaten together in the right order and proportion.  The two enemies were still on the very breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each side of the peat fire, with a mighty show of politeness.  Maclaren pressed them to taste his mutton-ham and “the wife’s brose,” reminding them the wife was out of Athole and had a name far and wide for her skill in that confection.  But Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath.

“I would have ye to remark, sir,” said Alan, “that I havenae broken bread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than any brose in Scotland.”

“I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart,” replied Robin.  “Eat and drink; I’ll follow you.”

Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to Mrs. Maclaren; and then after a great number of civilities, Robin took the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.

“Ay, ye can, blow” said Alan; and taking the instrument from his rival, he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin’s; and then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with a perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the “warblers.”

I had been pleased with Robin’s playing, Alan’s ravished me.

“That’s no very bad, Mr. Stewart,” said the rival, “but ye show a poor device in your warblers.”

“Me!” cried Alan, the blood starting to his face.  “I give ye the lie.”

“Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then,” said Robin, “that ye seek to change them for the sword?”