In their old fashion the glensfolk shifted for the time their homes to the shielings high up on the hills, in the breasts of the corries where are sappy levels that the heifers come to from the cropped glens like misers to a gentleman’s table. While their cattle on the long day ends tugged the crisp grasses, the people would come out of their bothies and huts and sit in a company, above them the openings between the hills, the silver dusk that never grew dark, and the prickle of stars. Then Red John carried himself among the company like a chief, full of _bardachd_, {295} of wit, of the most fairy music, so that even the girl whose lover he borrowed gave him credit for a warlock’s charm. It was not the genius of him, but the affable conduct and his gentleman’s parts. A scamp, with duty near tugging at the cuff of his doublet, he went dancing through life, regardless as a bird. Had you a grievance against him?—he forgave you with a laugh, and took you by the elbow, telling some gaiety in your ear. Your most sober mood fell before his rallying like mist from the hillside in sun and breeze. Honest, true to his word as to his friend, fond of a glass, fond of a lass: they called him the boon friend of the shielings. And wherever he went, this light-head, in humour and carelessness, Alan walked faithful at his heels, nearer his heart than any foster-brother, more and more learning his ways of idleness and diversion. Ealasaid at last went to this Cowal fellow once complaining, with some shame, for a Highland girl has small heed to speak of the heart’s business to any man but one. “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m sorry,” he said, with no pretence in the vexation of his brow. “I tempt no one to folly, and surely I’m not to blame for friendship to a lad so fine a woman can have the heart to think the best of.” “You are his blackest foe,” she said stormily. “I’m foe to none, woman,” he cried, “except perhaps to a man they call Red John, and the worst enemy ever I had was welcome to share the last penny in my sporran. I have my weakness, I’ll allow, but my worst is that my promise is better than my performance, and my most ill-judged acts are well intended.” “Blame yourself,” said Ealasaid. “I blame nobody,” said he, laughing. “If other folk get such contentment out of their good deeds as I get out of my good intentions, it’s no bad world to spend a while in.” “You’re like the weak man in the _ceilidh_ story,” pressed the girl. “How?” quo’ he. “Because you botch life,” said she. “Let a girl tell it you. And the pity of it is you’ll do it to the end.”