The Lost Pibroch, and other Sheiling Stories. Munro Neil

before the sun's off Sithean Sluaidhe, your sleep this night is yonder,” and he pointed at the pit below.

      Calum laughed the more. “If it was hell itself,” said he, “I would not save my soul from it.”

      “Look, man, look! the Sithean Sluaidhe's getting black, and any one of ye can save the three yet. I swear it on the cross of my knife.”

      Behind the brothers, one, John-Without-Asking, stood, with a gash on his face, eager to give them to the crows below.

      A shiver came to Uileam's lips; he looked at his father with a questioning face, and then stepped back a bit from the edge, making to speak to the tall man of Chamis.

      Calum saw the meaning, and spoke fast and thick.

      “Stop, stop,” said he; “it's a trifle of a secret, after all, and to save life ye can have it.”

      Art took but a little look at his father's face, then turned round on Shira Glen and looked on the hills where the hunting had many a time been sweet. “Maam no more,” said he to himself; “but here's death in the hero's style!”

      “I thought you would tell it,” laughed Niall Mor. “There was never one of your clan but had a tight grip of his little life.”

      “Ay!” said Calum Dubh; “but it's my secret. I had it from one who made me swear on the holy steel to keep it; but take me to Carnus, and I'll make you the heather-ale.”

      “So be't, and——”

      “But there's this in it, I can look no clansmen nor kin in the face after telling it, so Art and Uileam must be out of the way first.”

      “Death, MacKellar?”

      “That same.”

      Uileam shook like a leaf, and Art laughed, with his face still to Shira, for he had guessed his father's mind.

      “Faith!” said Niall Mor, “and that's an easy thing enough,” and he nodded to John-Without-Asking.

      The man made stay nor tarry. He put a hand on each son's back and pushed them over the edge to their death below. One cry came up to the listening Diarmaids, one cry and no more—the last gasp of a craven.

      “Now we'll take you to Camus, and you'll make us the ale, the fine ale, the cream of rich heather-ale,” said Niall Mor, putting a knife to the thongs that tied MacKellar's arms to his side.

      With a laugh and a fast leap Calum Dubh stood back on the edge of the rock again.

      “Crook-mouths, fools, pigs' sons! did ye think it?” he cried. “Come with me and my sons and ye'll get ale, ay, and death's black wine, at the foot of Scaurnoch.” He caught fast and firm at John-Without-Asking, and threw himself over the rock-face. They fell as the scart dives, straight to the dim sea of mist and pine-tip, and the Diarmaids threw themselves on their breasts to look over. There was nothing to see of life but the crows swinging on black feathers; there was nothing to hear but the crows scolding.

      Niall Mor put the bonnet on his head and said his first and last friendly thing of a foe.

      “Yon,” said he, “had the heart of a man!”