It was at this auspicious moment, when the heart of the expectant heiress was inflamed with romantic fancies and excited with the suspense of waiting, and before it had time to cool through any undue delay, that a little cloud of dust first caught her straining eyes.

“He comes at last!” she cried.

At the same instant the faint strains of the pibroch were gently wafted to her embattled tower.

“He is bringing his piper!  Oh, what a duck he is!”

“Seems to me he is bringing a dozen of them,” observed Ri.

“And look, Ri!  The sun is glinting upon steel!  Claymores, Ri! oh, how heavenly!  There must be fifty men!  And they are still coming!  I do believe he has brought the whole clan!”

Too petrified with delight to utter another exclamation, she watched in breathless silence the approach of a procession more formidable than had ever escorted a Tulliwuddle since the year of Culloden.  As they drew nearer, her ardent gaze easily distinguished a stalwart figure in plaid and kilt, armed to the teeth with target and claymore, marching with a stately stride fully ten paces before his retinue.

“The chief!” she murmured.

Now indeed she saw there was no cause to mourn, for any one at all resembling the Baron von Blitzenberg as he appeared at that moment she had certainly never met before.  Intoxicated with his finery and with the terrific peals of melody behind him, he pranced rather than walked up to the portals of Lincoln Lodge, and there, to the amazement and admiration alike of his clansmen and his expectant host, he burst forth into the following Celtic fragment, translated into English for the occasion by his assiduous friend from a hitherto undiscovered manuscript of Ossian: 

     “I am ze chieftain,
       Nursed in ze mountains,
       Behold me, Mac—­ig—­ig—­ig ish!

(Yet the Count had written this word very distinctly.)

     “Oich for ze claymore! 
       Hoch for ze philabeg! 
       Sons of ze red deers,
       Children of eagles,
       I will supply you
       Mit Sassenach carcases!”

At this point came a momentary lull, the chieftain’s eyes rolling bloodthirstily, but the rhapsody having apparently become congested within his fiery heart.  His audience, however, were not given time to recover their senses, before a striking-looking individual, adorned with tartan trews and a feathered hat, in whom all were pleased to recognize Count Bunker, whispered briefly in his lordship’s ear, and like a river in spate he foamed on: 

     “Donald and Ronald
       Avake from your slumbers! 
       Maiden so lovely,
       Smile mit your bright eyes! 
       Ze heather is blooming! 
       Ze vild cat is growling! 
       Hech Dummeldirroch! 
       Behold Tollyvoddle,
       Ze Lord of ze Mountains!”