“Yes, sir.”

“Come along, then.”

For now the wild skirl of Donald’s pipes was plainly audible; and the various packages—­the new rifle, the wooden case containing the wonderful dresses for Lady Macleod and her niece, and what not—­were all ranged ready; to say nothing of some loaves of white bread that the steward was sending ashore at Hamish’s request.  And then the heaving boat came close to, her sail hauled down; and a rope was thrown and caught; and then there was a hazardous scrambling down the dripping iron steps, and a notable spring on the part of Oscar, who had escaped from the hands of the sailors.  As for the new gillie, he resembled nothing so much as a limp bunch of clothes, as Macleod’s men, wondering not a little, caught him up and passed him astern.  Then the rope was thrown off, the steamer steamed slowly ahead, the lugsail was run up again, and away the boat plunged for the shore, with Donald playing the “Heights of Alma” as though he would rend the skies.

“Hold your noise, Donald!” his master called to him.  “You will have plenty of time to play the pipes in the evening.”

For he was greatly delighted to be among his own people again; and he was eager in his questions of the men as to all that had happened in his absence; and it was no small thing to them that Sir Keith Macleod should remember their affairs, too, and ask after their families and friends.  Donald’s loyalty was stronger than his professional pride.  He was not offended that he had been silenced; he only bottled up his musical fervor all the more; and at length, as he neared the land, and knew that Lady Macleod and Miss Macleod were within hearing, he took it that he knew better than any one else what was proper to the occasion, and once more the proud and stirring march strove with the sound of the hurrying waves.  Nor was that all.  The piper lad was doing his best.  Never before had he put such fire into his work; but as they got close inshore the joy in his heart got altogether the mastery of him, and away he broke into the mad delight of “Lady Mary Ramsay’s Reel.”  Hamish on the quay heard, and he strutted about as if he were himself playing, and that before the Queen.  And then he heard another sound—­that of Macleod’s voice: 

“Stand by lads!...  Down with her!”—­and the flapping sail, with its swinging gaff, rattled down into the boat.  At the same moment Oscar made a clear spring into the water, gained the landing-steps, and dashed upward—­dripping as he was—­to two ladies who were standing on the quay above.  And Janet Macleod so far forgot what was due to her best gown that she caught his head in her arms, as he pawed and whined with delight.

That was a glad enough party that started off and up the hillside for Castle Dare.  Janet Macleod did not care to conceal that she had been crying a little bit; and there were proud tears in the eyes of the stately old dame who walked with her; but the most excited of all was Hamish, who could by no means be got to understand that his master did not all at once want to hear about the trial of the young setters, and the price of the sheep sold the week before at Tobermory, and the stag that was chased by the Carsaig men on Tuesday.