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Updated: June 5, 2025
I ask if you have ever found me with the babbling and unbridled tongue of a fool in my mouth, giving my bottom-most thought to the wind and the street?" "You were no Gael if you did, my lord. That's the sin of the shallow wit. I aye kept a bit thought of my own in the corner of my vest." MacCailein sighed, and the stem of the beaker he was fingering broke in his nervous fingers.
"A cool enough reception this," said M'Iver, as we left the gate. "It was different last year, when we went up together on your return from Low Germanie. Then MacCailein was in the need of soldiers, now he's in the need of priests, who gloze over his weakness with their prayers." "You are hardly fair either to the one or the other," I said.
Give me my book in my closet, or at worst let me do my country's work in a courtier's way with brains, and I would ask no more." "Except Badenoch and Nether Lochaber fat land, fine land, MacCailein!" said John Splendid, laughing cunningly. "You're an ass, John," he said; "picking up the countryside's gossip.
What Rome may never do, that may paper and sheepskin; you, yourself, MacCailein, have the name of plying pen and ink very well to your own purpose in the fingers of old lairds who have small skill of that contrivance." He would have passed on in this outrageous strain without remission, had not Gordon checked him with a determined and unabashed voice.
In spite of the Macaulay prophecy, MacCailein and his men came home in the fulness of time. They came with the first snowstorm of winter, the clan in companies down Glenaora and his lordship roundabout by the Lowlands, where he had a mission to the Estates.
What do I care for your bubbly-jock Highland vanity?" said Gordon. "We were saying nothing of MacCailein that we would not say to you," I explained to M'Iver, annoyed in some degree by his interference. "Ay, ay," said he, with a pitying shrug of the shoulder, and throwing off his last objection to my curiosity; "you're on the old point again. Man, but you're ill to satisfy!
He came back to a poor reception: the vestiges of his country's most bitter extremity were on every hand, and, what was bound to be embarrassing to any nobleman of spirit, there was that in the looks and comportment of his clansmen that must have given MacCailein some unpleasant thought.
MacCailein scrutinised me sharply, and opened his lips as it were to say something, but changed his mind, and made a gesture towards the bottle, which John Splendid speedily availed himself of with a "Here's one who has no swither about it. Lord knows I have had few enough of life's comforts this past week!"
Their salutes were rarely for Elrigmore, but for the lady and John Splendid, whose bold quarrel with MacCailein Mor was now the rumour of two parishes, and gave him a wide name for unflinching bravery of a kind he had been generally acknowledged as sadly want ing in before.
Her voice at last broke and failed to a thin piping whisper, and it was then with the sweat on her brow she gave the hint I speak of, the hint of the war's end and the end of MacCailein Mor. "Wry-mouths, wry-mouths!" said she; "I see the heather above the myrtle on Lhinne-side, and MacCailein's head on a post." That was all.
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