[Footnote 2:  Daoine Shi (pronounced Dheener Shee) = Men of Peace.]

Now one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the Laird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from his men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as the country was to him, he lost his way.

In vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or beast came back to him through the thickening vapour.

Then night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn needed to sound every step with his rung[3] before he took it.

[Footnote 3:  Rung = a thick stick.]

Suddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then Something rubbed against him, then It ran between his legs.  The delighted Laird made sure that his favourite collie had found him once more.

“Wow, Jock, man!” he cried; “but ye needna throw me on my face.  What’s got ye the night, that you should lose your way in a bit mist?”

To this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but patronizing tones;

“Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed over to Ireland in the Dawn of History.  Eh, Laird!  I’m weel acquaint with every bit path on the hill-side these hundreds of years, and I’ll guide ye safe hame, never fear!”

The hairs on Brockburn’s head stood on end till they lifted his broad bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog.  But, for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only felt about him for the collie’s head to pat, crying: 

“Bark!  Jock, my mannie, bark!  Then I’ll recognize your voice, ye ken.  It’s no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie.”

“I’m nae your doggie, I’m a Man of Peace,” was the reply.  “Dinna miscall your betters, Brockburn:  why will ye not credit our existence, man?”

“Seein’s believin’,” said the Laird, stubbornly; “but the mist’s ower thick for seein’ the night, ye ken.”

“Turn roun’ to your left, man, and ye’ll see,” said the Dwarf, and catching Brockburn by the arm, he twisted him swiftly round three times, when a sudden blaze of light poured through the mist, and revealed a crag of the mountain well known to the Laird, and which he now saw to be a kind of turret, or tower.

Lights shone gaily through the crevices or windows of the Shian, and sounds of revelry came forth, among which fiddling was conspicuous.  The tune played at that moment was “Delvyn-side.”

Blinded by the light, and amazed at what he saw, the Laird staggered, and was silent.

“Keep to your feet, man—­keep to your feet!” said the Dwarf, laughing.  “I doubt ye’re fou, Brockburn!”

“I’m nae fou,” said the Laird, slowly, his rung grasped firmly in his hand, and his bonnet set back from his face, which was deadly pale.  “But—­man-is yon Rory? I’d know his fiddle in a thousand.”