"I sing, because I must! It is my life. I have not thought of other people, except in so far as their approval would justify me in my father's eyes. You could no doubt judge better than I if what I have to say has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?" A curious sound broke from the Chieftain's lips, a sound something between a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung his short arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air of determined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile. "It's a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never know your luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into the bargain! I'll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Where does my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses--be plagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Hand them over, then,--the first that come to the surface--and let me get through with it as soon as possible!" He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket. "I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is the latest. A Madrigal--`To my Lady.'" "Love-song?" "Yes." "Ever been in love?" "No." "What a pity when charming--poets--sing of things they don't understand! Well, well, hand it over! I'll bear it as bravely as I may--" Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the cool, supercilious expression on the critic's face, the indifferent flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned. "Anything more?" "You don't care for that one?" "Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times--and somewhat more happily expressed. If I were a poet--which I'm not, thank goodness!--I could turn 'em out by the score. Ten shillings each, reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in the lucky bag?" "There's my note-book. They are all in there--the new ones, I mean, written since I came up here. You can read which you please." Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the dentist's tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of this most honest of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to look at his companion's face, but even without that eloquent guide it was easy to follow his impressions.