At the door of the first house we came to, Alan knocked, which
was of no very safe enterprise in such a part of the Highlands as
the Braes of Balquhidder. No great clan held rule there; it was
filled and disputed by small septs, and broken remnants, and what
they call "chiefless folk," driven into the wild country about
the springs of Forth and Teith by the advance of the Campbells.
Here were Stewarts and Maclarens, which came to the same thing,
for the Maclarens followed Alan's chief in war, and made but one
clan with Appin. Here, too, were many of that old, proscribed,
nameless, red-handed clan of the Macgregors. They had always
been ill-considered, and now worse than ever, having credit with
no side or party in the whole country of Scotland. Their chief,
Macgregor of Macgregor, was in exile; the more immediate leader
of that part of them about Balquhidder, James More, Rob Roy's
eldest son, lay waiting his trial in Edinburgh Castle; they were
in ill-blood with Highlander and Lowlander, with the Grahames,
the Maclarens, and the Stewarts; and Alan, who took up the
quarrel of any friend, however distant, was extremely wishful to
Chance served us very well; for it was a household of Maclarens
that we found, where Alan was not only welcome for his name's
sake but known by reputation. Here then I was got to bed without
delay, and a doctor fetched, who found me in a sorry plight. But
whether because he was a very good doctor, or I a very young,
strong man, I lay bedridden for no more than a week, and before a
month I was able to take the road again with a good heart.
All this time Alan would not leave me though I often pressed him,
and indeed his foolhardiness in staying was a common subject of
outcry with the two or three friends that were let into the
secret. He hid by day in a hole of the braes under a little
wood; and at night, when the coast was clear, would come into the
house to visit me. I need not say if I was pleased to see him;
Mrs. Maclaren, our hostess, thought nothing good enough for such
a guest; and as Duncan Dhu (which was the name of our host) had a
pair of pipes in his house, and was much of a lover of music,
this time of my recovery was quite a festival, and we commonly
turned night into day.
The soldiers let us be; although once a party of two companies
and some dragoons went by in the bottom of the valley, where I
could see them through the window as I lay in bed. What was much
more astonishing, no magistrate came near me, and there was no
question put of whence I came or whither I was going; and in that
time of excitement, I was as free of all inquiry as though I had
lain in a desert. Yet my presence was known before I left to all
the people in Balquhidder and the adjacent parts; many coming
about the house on visits and these (after the custom of the
country) spreading the news among their neighbours. The bills,
too, had now been printed. There was one pinned near the foot of
my bed, where I could read my own not very flattering portrait
and, in larger characters, the amount of the blood money that had
been set upon my life. Duncan Dhu and the rest that knew that I
had come there in Alan's company, could have entertained no doubt
of who I was; and many others must have had their guess. For
though I had changed my clothes, I could not change my age or
person; and Lowland boys of eighteen were not so rife in these
parts of the world, and above all about that time, that they
could fail to put one thing with another, and connect me with the
bill. So it was, at least. Other folk keep a secret among two
or three near friends, and somehow it leaks out; but among these
clansmen, it is told to a whole countryside, and they will keep
it for a century.
There was but one thing happened worth narrating; and that is the
visit I had of Robin Oig, one of the sons of the notorious Rob
Roy. He was sought upon all sides on a charge of carrying a
young woman from Balfron and marrying her (as was alleged) by
force; yet he stepped about Balquhidder like a gentleman in his
own walled policy. It was he who had shot James Maclaren at the
plough stilts, a quarrel never satisfied; yet he walked into the
house of his blood enemies as a rider might into a public
Duncan had time to pass me word of who it was; and we looked at
one another in concern. You should understand, it was then close
upon the time of Alan's coming; the two were little likely to
agree; and yet if we sent word or sought to make a signal, it was
sure to arouse suspicion in a man under so dark a cloud as the
He came in with a great show of civility, but like a man among
inferiors; took off his bonnet to Mrs. Maclaren, but clapped it
on his head again to speak to Duncan; and leaving thus set
himself (as he would have thought) in a proper light, came to my
bedside and bowed.
"I am given to know, sir," says he, "that your name is Balfour."
"They call me David Balfour," said I, "at your service."
"I would give ye my name in return, sir" he replied, "but
one somewhat blown upon of late days; and it'll perhaps suffice
if I tell ye that I am own brother to James More Drummond or
Macgregor, of whom ye will scarce have failed to hear."
"No, sir," said I, a little alarmed; "nor yet of your father,
Macgregor-Campbell." And I sat up and bowed in bed; for I
thought best to compliment him, in case he was proud of having
had an outlaw to his father.
He bowed in return. "But what I am come to say, sir," he went
on, "is this. In the year '45, my brother raised a part of the
'Gregara' and marched six companies to strike a stroke for the
good side; and the surgeon that marched with our clan and cured
my brother's leg when it was broken in the brush at Preston Pans,
was a gentleman of the same name precisely as yourself. He was
brother to Balfour of Baith; and if you are in any reasonable
degree of nearness one of that gentleman's kin, I have come to
put myself and my people at your command."
You are to remember that I knew no more of my descent than any
cadger's dog; my uncle, to be sure, had prated of some of our
high connections, but nothing to the present purpose; and there
was nothing left me but that bitter disgrace of owning that I
could not tell.
Robin told me shortly he was sorry he had put himself about,
turned his back upon me without a sign of salutation, and as he
went towards the door, I could hear him telling Duncan that I was
"only some kinless loon that didn't know his own father." Angry
as I was at these words, and ashamed of my own ignorance, I could
scarce keep from smiling that a man who was under the lash of the
law (and was indeed hanged some three years later) should be so
nice as to the descent of his acquaintances.
Just in the door, he met Alan coming in; and the two drew back
and looked at each other like strange dogs. They were neither of
them big men, but they seemed fairly to swell out with pride.
Each wore a sword, and by a movement of his haunch, thrust clear
the hilt of it, so that it might be the more readily grasped and
the blade drawn.
"Mr. Stewart, I am thinking," says Robin.
"Troth, Mr. Macgregor, it's not a name to be ashamed of,"
"I did not know ye were in my country, sir," says Robin.
"It sticks in my mind that I am in the country of my friends the
Maclarens," says Alan.
"That's a kittle point," returned the other. "There may be
words to say to that. But I think I will have heard that you are
a man of your sword?"
"Unless ye were born deaf, Mr. Macgregor, ye will have heard a
good deal more than that," says Alan. "I am not the only man
that can 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
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
"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
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
poor device in your warblers."
"Me!" cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. "I give
"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
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.
"Robin Oig," he said, when it was done, "ye are a great piper.
am not fit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye
have mair music in your sporran than I have in my head! And
though it still sticks in my mind that I could maybe show ye
another of it with the cold steel, I warn ye beforehand -- it'll
no be fair! It would go against my heart to haggle a man that
can blow the pipes as you can!"
Thereupon that quarrel was made up; all night long the brose was
going and the pipes changing hands; and the day had come pretty
bright, and the three men were none the better for what they had
been taking, before Robin as much as thought upon the road.
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