Donald Iverach, the old piper of the family, (which office his ancestors had held since the days of Robert the Second, according to his own account,) was pacing with a stately air to and fro before the door of the fortalice, with the expanded bag of the piob mhor under his arm, blowing from its long chaunter and three huge drones "a tempest of dissonance;" while he measured with regular strides the length of the barbican or court, at one end of which stood a large stoup of whisky, (placed on the end of a cask,) to which he applied himself at every turn of his promenade to wet his whistle. The piper, though of low stature, was of a powerful, athletic, and sinewy form, and although nearly sixty, was as fresh as when only sixteen; his face was rough and purple, from drinking and exposure to the weather; his huge red whiskers curled round beneath his chin and grew up to his eyes, which twinkled and glittered beneath their shaggy brows; a smart blue bonnet set jauntily, very much over the right eye, gave him a knowing look, and his knees, "which had never known covering from the day of his birth," where exposed by the kilt were hairy and rough as the hide of the roe-buck; his plaid waved behind, and a richly mounted dirk, eighteen inches long, hanging on his right side, completed his attire. Great was the surprise of the Celt when, on turning in his march, he suddenly beheld Sir Allan Lisle, whom he had not seen since the last year, when by the laird’s orders he had endeavoured, by the overwhelming noise of his pipe, to drown a speech which the baronet was addressing to the electors of the county. But what earthly errand, thought Donald, could bring a Lisle up Strathisla, where one of the race had not been seen since the father of the present Sir Allan had beleagured the tower in 1746 with a party of the Scottish Fusileers. The chaunter fell from the hand of the astonished piper, and the wind in the bag of his instrument escaped with an appalling groan. "My good friend, I am glad you have ceased at last," said Sir Allan; "I expected every moment that my horse would have thrown me. This fortress of yours will be secure against cavalry while you are in it, I dare swear." "I dinna ken, sir," replied the piper, touching his bonnet haughtily; "but when pare-leggit gillies and red coats tried it in the troublesome times, they aye gat the tead man’s share o’ the deep loch below." "Is your master—is Lochisla at home?" "His honour the laird is within," replied Iverach, as Sir Allan dismounted and desired him to hold his horse. "Lochisla’s piper will hold nae man’s bridle-rein, his honour’s excepted," said the indignant Highlander; "put a common gillie may do tat. Holloa! Alpin Oig Stuart! Dugald! Evan! come an’ hold ta shentleman’s praw sheltie," shouted he, making the old barbican ring.