Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

draw steel in Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, Ardshiel, had a talk with a gentleman of your name, not so many years back, I could never hear that the Macgregor had the best of it.”

“Do ye mean my father, sir?” says Robin.

“Well, I wouldnae wonder,” said Alan. “The gentleman I have in my mind had the ill-taste to clap Campbell to his name.”

“My father was an old man,” returned Robin.

“The match was unequal. You and me would make a better pair, sir.”

“I was thinking that,” said Alan.

I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these fighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion. But when that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with something of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will have been thinking of a very different matter, whateffer. Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who are baith acclaimed pipers. It’s an auld dispute which one of ye’s the best. Here will be a braw chance to settle it.”

“Why, sir,” said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had not so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, “why, sir,” says Alan, “I think I will have heard some sough* of the sort. Have ye music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?”

* Rumour.

“I can pipe like a Macrimmon!” cries Robin.

“And that is a very bold word,” quoth Alan.

“I have made bolder words good before now,” returned Robin, “and that against better adversaries.”

“It is easy to try that,” says Alan.

Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his principal possession, and to set before his guests a mutton-ham and a bottle of that drink which they call Athole brose, and which is made of old whiskey, strained honey and sweet cream, slowly beaten together in the right order and proportion. The two enemies were still on the very breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each side of the peat fire, with a mighty show of politeness. Maclaren pressed them to taste his mutton-ham and “the wife’s brose,” reminding them the wife was out of Athole and had a name far and wide for her skill in that confection. But Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath.

“I would have ye to remark, sir,” said Alan, “that I havenae broken bread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than any brose in Scotland.”

“I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart,” replied Robin. “Eat and drink; I’ll follow you.”

Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to Mrs. Maclaren; and then after a great number of civilities, Robin took the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.

“Ay, ye can blow” said Alan; and taking the instrument from his rival, he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin’s; and then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with a perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the “warblers.”

I had been pleased with Robin’s playing, Alan’s ravished me.

“That’s no very bad, Mr. Stewart,” said the rival, “but ye show a poor device in your warblers.”

“Me!” cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. “I give ye the lie.”

“Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then,” said Robin, “that ye seek to change them for the sword?”

“And that’s very well said, Mr. Macgregor,” returned Alan; “and in the meantime” (laying a strong accent on the word) “I take back the lie. I appeal to Duncan.”

“Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody,” said Robin. “Ye’re a far better judge than any Maclaren in Balquhidder: for it’s a God’s truth that you’re a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes.” Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some part of Alan’s variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly.

“Ay, ye have music,” said Alan, gloomily.

“And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart,” said Robin; and taking up the variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and so quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him.

As for Alan, his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his fingers, like a man under some deep affront. “Enough!” he cried. “Ye can blow the pipes—make the most of that.” And he made as if to rise.

But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck into the slow measure of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in itself, and nobly played; but it seems, besides, it was a piece peculiar to the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes were scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time quickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that piece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he had no thought but for the music.