We sat and warmed ourselves and ate heartily, the heat of that homely dwelling--the first we had sat in for days--an indulgence so rare and precious that it seemed a thing we could never again tear ourselves away from to encounter the unkindness of those Lorn mounts anew. The children watched us with an alarm and curiosity no way abated, beholding in us perhaps (for one at least was at an age to discern the difference our tartan and general aspect presented from those of Glencoe) that we were strangers from a great distance, maybe enemies, at least with some rigour of warfare about our visage and attire. The mother, finding her way with the readiness of long familiarity about the house, got ease for her grief, whatever it was, in the duties thus suddenly thrust upon her: she spoke but seldom, and she never asked--in that she was true Gael--any more particulars about ourselves than Stewart had volunteered. And when we had been served with our simple viands, she sat composedly before us with her hands in her lap, and her eyes turned on us with an appearance of sedate scrutiny no whit the less perplexing because we knew her orbs were but fair clean window-panes shuttered and hasped within. “You will excuse my dull welcome,” she said, with a wan smile, speaking a very pleasant accent of North Country Gaelic, that turned upon the palate like a sweet “A week or two ago you would have found a very cheerful house, not a widow’s sorrow, and, if my eyes were useless, my man (_beannachd leis!_) had a lover’s eyes, and these were the eyes for himself and me.” “Was he at Inverlochy?” I asked softly; “was he out with Montrose?” “He died a week come Thursday,” said the woman. “They’re telling me of wars--weary on them and God’s pity on the widow women they make, and the mothers they must leave lonely--but such a thing is sorrow that the world, from France to the Isles, might be in flames and I would still be thinking on my man that’s yonder in the cold clods of the yard.... Stretch your hands; it’s your welcome, gentlemen.” “I have one or two other friends out-bye there in the byre,” put in Stewart, who found the vigilance of the youths in the bed gave no opportunity for smuggling provand to the others of our party. The woman’s face flamed up a little and took on the least of a look of alarm that Stewart--who was very cunning and quick in some matters--set about removing at once with some of those convenient lies that he seemed never out of the want of. “Some of our lads,” said he, with a duck of apology at M’Iver and myself for taking liberties with the reputation of our friends. “They’re very well where they are among the bracken, if they had but the bite and sup, and if it’s your will I could take them that.”