Immediately in front of you is Inchmurrin, the longest of the islands, fully half-a-mile long, which the Duke of Montrose uses as a deer park. It is beautifully wooded. Brown seems the most becoming colour for this season of the year. The summer dies gloriously in leafy places with such a splendour of beauty that it is difficult to recognise it as decay. The golden and brown leaves, mingling with the greens that still retain their colour, are pleasant accompaniments of the season. But we need not look so far away for autumnal tints. They are all round us. The golden brown hues of the pheasant hang in every leaf; the bird itself, wonderfully protected by nature, stands among herbage, wearing his colours and eyeing the wayfarer as he passes. And what can look warmer and more comfortable than those brown brackens which are everywhere? And are they really brown? They look so in the distance, but near they are yellow as well as brown; and some are a beautiful bronze, and in sheltered spots the lady ferns are just as green and fresh as they were in July and early August. But once more for the loch and its islands. Inchmurrin has at its west end the ruins of an old castle which was inhabited in former times by the family of Lennox. The Duchess of Albany resided here after the execution at Stirling, in 1425, and within sight of their own castle at Doune, of her husband, father, and two sons, on the restoration of James First. She herself was for some time confined in Tantallon Castle, but on her release she resided here. Passing over the two smaller islands of Creinge and Torinch, you have to the right Inchcailliach, the largest and probably the most lovely of all, notable as being the burial-place of the Macgregors. “Upon the halidom of him that sleeps beneath the grey stone at Inchcailliach!” was a favourite oath among the members of this warlike clan. Rob Roy used it when promising the Bailie payment of his money. It is sometimes called the Nun’s Island, or “the Island of Old Women,” from a nunnery which once stood there; and when seen from the direction of the Endrick its outline resembles that of a dead human body, from which it is called sometimes the corpse of Loch Lomond. To the east of it is the small island of Clairinch, from which the Clan Buchanan took their slogan or battle cry, “Clair Inch.” To the west of it is Inchfad, or the Long Island, close to which, and in a dry season, within wadeable distance of it, is Darroch Eilan, the general lunching rendezvous. Here, also, there is a mighty oak, which has sheltered generations of anglers, and of poachers too, for even to this day the “otter” is here used in spite of honour or law. To the west of Inchfad is Inchcruin, or the Round Island, an island which for many years formed an asylum for insane boarders; it is also the unwilling resort of those who “cannot take a little without taking too much,” and therefore it has the sadly significant cognomen of “the Drunken Island.”