"It is a strange people you are," said Muckle John, "who do not know a bard when you see one." "A bard," echoed Mackenzie, "then sing or play," and he laughed at the rest of them and winked for what was to follow. "My boy here carries my instrument," he said, and he drew Rob aside under pretence of conferring with him. "Rob," he whispered, "hark to the tune that runs just so," and he hummed a bar, "maybe it will be called 'Mackenzie's Dance.' When I have played it once do as I tell," and he laid his mouth close to the boy's ear. "Make your way out and take the old woman with ye, for she can give you a hand." Then, turning on the Mackenzies, he smiled like a man on a pleasant errand, and standing with his back to the fire began to sing, and at the first note a strange hush fell over the Mackenzies, for none had ever listened to singing like that. The sun had set an hour since and the grey mist of the gloaming was creeping over the loch and along the beach. Far out at sea a boat was heading shorewards. Muckle John saw it through the open window-space. It was a boat swiftly rowed and carrying a flag at the stern. Mackenzie was watching it too--a derisive smile upon his lips. And as Muckle John sang he saw the smile and measured the distance that divided the boat from the land with a swift glance. "Brawly sung," cried the Mackenzies, laughing in their sleeves at the rude awakening the stranger would have. Muckle John paused a moment and drew his whistle out of his pocket. "If you were to give me the space of an elbow," said he, "I would play you a tune." "Way there," cried Mackenzie, and they fell back, leaving a passage to the door. At that Muckle John broke into a lament called "The Glen of Tears," and in the wail of it was the sadness of twilight and the story of it was the passing of years. Sorrow--sorrow and the old days that are gone for always--backwards and forwards went Muckle John and tears trickled down the cheeks of the Mackenzies, while Neil, their leader, hung his head and said in his mind, "We will not fall on him yet, but wait awhile until we have heard another tune." And all the time the boat was nearing the shore. Without pausing Muckle John swung out a reel, and so brisk was his way with the fingering and so lively the measure that they fell to dancing there and then, turning and hooching, and best of them Neil Mackenzie, a scoundrel if ever there was one. None noticed how Muckle John had reached the open doorway. It was only the pause that he made (which was pure reckless madness of him) until they found themselves staring at each other shamefacedly and looking at Neil to see what was in his mind. But he only grinned, thinking of the rare joke that was coming and nodded to Muckle John. "Go on," he shouted. Muckle John bowed his head. On his lips was a dangerous smile. "I will play a tune," said he, "called 'The Dance of the Mackenzies'--it came running in my head an hour back."