When Duncan heard his voice, he rose with dignity and made a stride or two towards the door, stretching forth his long arm to its full length, and spreading wide his great hand with the brown palm upwards: “Her nainsel will pe proud to see my lord ta marquis under her roof,” he said. The visit itself had already sufficed to banish all resentment from his soul. The marquis took the proffered hand kindly: “I have come to apologise,” he said. “Not one vord more, my lort, I peg,” interrupted Duncan. “My lort is come, out of his cootness, to pring her a creat kift; for he’ll pe hearing of ta sad accident which pefell her poor pipes one efening lately. Tey was ferry old, my lort, and easily hurt.” “I am sorry--” said the marquis--but again Duncan interrupted him. “I am clad, my lort,” he said, “for it prings me ta creat choy. If my lady and your lordship will honour her poor house py sitting town, she will haf ta pleasure of pe offering tem a little music.” His hospitality would give them of the best he had; but ere the entertainment was over, the marquis judged himself more than fairly punished by the pipes for all the wrong he had done the piper. They sat down, and, at a sign from his lordship, the servant placed his charge in Duncan’s hands, and retired. The piper received the instrument with a proud gesture of gratification, felt it all over, screwed at this and that for a moment, then filled the great bag gloriously full. The next instant a scream invaded the astonished air fit to rival the skirl produced by the towzie tyke of Kirk-Alloway; another instant, and the piper was on his legs, as full of pleasure and pride as his bag of wind, strutting up and down the narrow chamber like a turkey-cock before his hens, and turning ever, after precisely so many strides, with a grand gesture and mighty sweep, as if he too had a glorious tail to mind, and was bound to keep it ceaselessly quivering to the tremor of the reed in the throat of his chanter.