It is likely we would have taken him at his word, and have risen and gone on his way to the east, where the narrowing of the loch showed that it was close on its conclusion; but the Stewart took from his knapsack some viands that gave a frantic edge to our appetite and compelled us to stay and eat. The day was drawing to its close, the sun, falling behind us, was pillowed on clouds of a rich crimson. For the first time, we noticed the signs of the relaxation of the austere season in the return of bird and beast to their familiar haunts. As the sun dipped the birds came out to the brae-side to catch his last ray, as they ever love to do. Whaups rose off the sand, and, following the gleam upon the braes, ascended from slope to slope, and the plover followed too, dipping his feet in the golden tide receding. On little fir-patches mounted numerous blackcock of sheeny feather, and the owls began to hoot in the wood beyond. CHAPTER XXII.--DAME DUBH. We had eaten to the last crumb, and were ready to be going, when again I asked Gordon what had come over Argile. “I’ll tell you that,” said he, bitterly; but as he began, some wildfowl rose in a startled flight to our right and whirred across the sky. “There’s some one coming,” said M’Iver; “let us keep close together.” From where the wildfowl rose, the Dame Dubh, as we called the old woman of Carnus, came in our direction, half-running, half-walking through the snow. She spied us while she was yet a great way off, stopped a second as one struck with an arrow, then continued her progress more eagerly than ever, with high-piped cries and taunts at us. “O cowards!” she cried; “do not face Argile, or the glens you belong to. Cowards, cowards, Lowland women, Glencoe’s full of laughter at your disgrace!” “Royal’s my race, I’ll not be laughed at!” cried Stewart. “They cannot know of it already in Glencoe!” said M’Iver, appalled. “Know it!” said the crone, drawing nearer and with still more frenzy; “Glencoe has songs on it already. The stench from Invcrlochy’s in the air; it’s a mock in Benderloch and Ardgour, it’s a nightmare in Glenurchy, and the women are keening on the slopes of Cladich. Cowards, cowards, little men, cowards! all the curses of Conan on you and the black rocks; die from home, and Hell itself reject you!” We stood in front of her in a group, slack at the arms and shoulders, bent a little at the head, affronted for the first time with the full shame of our disaster. All my bright portents of the future seemed, as they flashed again before me, muddy in the hue, an unfaithful man’s remembrance of his sins when they come before him at the bedside of his wife; the evasions of my friends revealed themselves what they were indeed, the shutting of the eyes against shame. The woman’s meaning. Master Gordon could only guess at, and he faced her composedly. “You are far off your road,” he said to her mildly, but she paid him no heed. “You have a bad tongue, mother,” said M’Iver.