And, presently, I went and sat me down upon the bench beside the door, with the war-worn shoes upon my knee. Suddenly, as I sat there, faint and fainter with distance, and unutterably sad, came the slow, sweet music of Donald's pipes playing the "Wallace Lament." Softly the melody rose and fell, until it died away in one long-drawn, wailing note. Now, as it ended, I rose, and uncovered my head, for I knew this was Donald's last farewell. Much more I might have told of this strange yet lovable man who was by turns the scarred soldier, full of stirring tales of camp and battlefield; the mischievous child delighting in tricks and rogueries of all sorts; and the stately Hieland gentleman. Many wild legends he told me of his native glens, with strange tales of the "second sight"—but here, perforce, must be no place for such. So here then I leave Donald and hurry on with my narrative. CHAPTER XXXII IN WHICH THIS FIRST BOOK BEGINS TO DRAW TO A CLOSE "Strike! ding! ding! Strike! ding! ding! The iron glows, And loveth good blows As fire doth bellows. Strike! ding! ding!" Out beyond the smithy door a solitary star twinkles low down in the night sky, like some great jewel; but we have no time for star-gazing, Black George and I, for to-night we are at work on the old church screen, which must be finished to-morrow. And so the bellows roar hoarsely, the hammers clang, and the sparks fly, while the sooty face of Black George, now in shadow, now illumed by the fire, seems like the face of some Fire-god or Salamander. In the corner, perched securely out of reach of stray sparks, sits the Ancient, snuff-box in hand as usual. To my mind, a forge is at its best by night, for, in the red, fiery glow, the blackened walls, the shining anvil, and the smith himself, bare-armed and bare of chest, are all magically transfigured, while, in the hush of night, the drone of the bellows sounds more impressive, the stroke of the hammers more sonorous and musical, and the flying sparks mark plainly their individual courses, ere they vanish. I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great "sledge" to whose diapason George's hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in after each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is, and has been, the way of masters of the smithing craft all the world over from time immemorial. "George," said I, during a momentary lull, leaning my hands upon the long hammer-shaft, "you don't sing." "No, Peter." "And why not?" "I think, Peter." "But surely you can both think and sing, George?" "Not always, Peter." "What's your trouble, George?" "No trouble, Peter," said he, above the roar of the bellows. "Then sing, George." "Ay, Jarge, sing," nodded the Ancient; "'tis a poor 'eart as never rejices, an' that's in the Scripters—so sing, Jarge."