long before the mist fell, Glenshee and Glenisla, once more in accord, had been roused, and were even then on the track of the robbers. As they followed up the trail, more and more difficult became the march, and consultations were held as to the propriety of going on blindly, and so possibly falling into an ambuscade. Many objected, and turned back through fear. They had no idea that Donald Mor had but seven or eight men with him. A small but resolute band, however, went on-the men of Glenisla at their head, and they were at length rewarded by seeing the gleam of the cateran's fire dully shining through the mist. They now advanced cautiously to reconnoitre, and to their astonishment a few figures only could be seen round the blaze. Still fearing some unseen force, they dared not go forward, but took aim where they stood and fired. Two of the figures fell -the others disappeared; even yet the pursuers hardly dared advance until the mist rose a little and permitted them to see the hollow more clearly. On arriving at the bivouac fire they found their two victims lying low, with their mouths full of bread and cheese, and in one they recognised the form and features of Donald Mor. So he died in Corrie Shith. It had been usual to bury the dead on the battle-field; but when the relatives and friends of Donald Mor learned how the body was to be disposed of, they sent a deputation to Glenshee, the members of which were all "dunnie wassails," for he was very well connected. Their appearance and proceedings had such weight that they were allowed to inter Donald's body in the churchyard of Glenshee; and they are even at this day spoken of in terms of the highest praise for their handsome gallant bearing, and their liberal affable conduct.

A person who knew the Glenisla man by whom Donald Mor was shot, used to tell that he never felt easy or secure. He sat in the house, facing the door at all times, with a loaded gun at his hand, and if it happened to be suddenly opened he clutched at the weapon with an affrighted start. Even so also did he, if suddenly accosted afield, for he always carried his gun with him.

You will pardon me for going wandering from my story. I meant to speak of Black Donald, the Egyptian, and Donald, the son of Robert the mighty. I have said the cousins first came to our notice by distinguished conduct during the expedition to Lochaber. Donald Dubh was in Allancuaich's following, and accompanied his master on a visit he paid to some acquaintance on their journey. When there he was a good deal annoyed by the fixed regards of an old crone in the house, and therefore walked out.

"Ah!" exclaimed she with a deep sigh as he disappeared,

"a pretty man, a pretty man! Pity he is destined to such an end!"

"And what may that be, pray?" asked Allancuaich. After insisting awhile, he learned that Donald Dubh would hang himself in his own garters. He mused awhile over this prediction, and then requested to know whether this doom might not be averted.

"Well," replied the crone in a musing way, "it might, it might. Suppose he were to attend mass regularly every Sunday; ah! well, but what matters it to us; he is none of our people."

And nothing more could be extracted from the fortune-teller. What he had learned, the laird did not fail to communicate to his follower. And so deep an impression did this make on him, that he never failed to attend mass regularly every Sunday during his lifetime, except on one occasion. I may tell you about it even now, though you are to understand it occurred a long while afterwards in the career of my hero. On the Sunday I refer to, the Dee was so swollen with rain that no boat could be "stinged" across (oars were then unknown in the Braes of Mar.) The Ephiteach, on worship intent with others in his neighbourhood, all ignorant of the fact, came down to the ferry, which was then, as now, at the bend of the river, about half a mile above Auchindryne. Finding there could be no passage effected, he sat down disconsolate on the bank, and a feeling of unaccountable depression came over him, so that he would not be comforted.

"Bless me," exclaimed a lad there present-Allancuaich's herd-who coveted the Ephiteach's garters-they were a dandy new pair-" don't make such a fuss about a mass. I'll sell you my right and title in the benefit of it for your garters."

Without a word the Ephiteach untied and threw them at the lad. Mark what betide. When they were calling the servants about Allancuaich to dinner, it was found that the herd had hanged himself in one of the byres with the garters he had coveted. And the doom of the weird woman was held to have been thus averted from Black Donald the Egyptian.

Domhnull Dubh, and Domhnull Mac-Robaidh Mhoir, sometime after the expedition to Lochaber, made a fishing excursion to Loch Bhrotachan. They took care to bring a gun with them to have a shot at what game chance might send in their way. After belabouring the loch for a considerable time with little success, the Ephiteach sat down somewhat wearied, and, scanning the hills around, perceived to his delight a stag browsing some miles away.

"Mac-Robaidh," quoth he, "I feel dull threshing at that water.

I see a stag over on the hills there, and shall have a shot at him. You can wait here till I return."

And away he strode. Ere he had been long gone, MacRobaidh Mhoir's eye fell upon the stalwart forms of six stout Kern armed with guns quite close beside him, who desired to know what manner of man he might be.

"In faith," said MacRobaidh, "I should not mind being one of yourselves, if I could get such an arm as each of you carries." "Could you use it well, if you had it?"

"Use it?" returned MacRobaidh, throwing down his rod and approaching; "if I don't hit any mark as nearly as the best shot among you, send a bullet through my head."

66 Well, well," said the Kern, "let us see. in that fir root by the loch-side."

Hold at the knot

MacRobaidh set himself to examine the guns, one after another, throwing them down beside him, till he had the fifth in his hand. "Behold! then :" quoth he, levelling the weapon, not indeed at the fir root, but at the leader of the party, who still retained his gun. In a moment he shot him dead; and ere the five remaining could recover from their surprise and draw their broadswords, he clubbed his musket, and, in a fierce onslaught, knocked down two of them. The three who still remained untouched, made a desperate resistance and thought to recover one of their firelocks. But their powerful opponent stood over their guns, and, having his rear protected by a deep pool, defied their efforts. Of gigantic size, and active as powerful, he swung the gun around him like a walking-cane. The contest remained long doubtful; and MacRobaidh began to hope that his loving cousin, attracted by the report of his shot, might soon come to his relief. But the Kern were not disposed to waste time. Two of them determined to keep him at bay, while the third endeavoured to snatch a gun from between his feet. Nothing daunted he sustained the assault, and, fortunately, with one sweep, caught their two blades and drove them aside, while with a downright blow, he felled the fellow who was bending to snatch the gun. The tide of battle began to turn. The son of Robert the Mighty assumed the offensive, and terminated the struggle by a complete victory. Where the blow had only stunned, he made "sicker" with his dirk, and, dragging the bodies into a hollow, threw them, with their guns, heads and feet over one another. By and by the Ephiteach returned.

"Well," demanded MacRobaidh, who had resumed his practice of the gentle art, "did you succeed in bringing down the stag?" "Oh! yes," answered the Ephiteach, "I have him lying by the road, and we can carry him home with us."

"Come here, then," said MacRobaidh, directing his steps to

the spot where the bodies of the Kern lay; "I dare say I have made the larger bag to-day."

"What game have you?"

"Look there!" and he pointed to the heap of gory dead.

"Ye savage! ye butchering savage!" and with this the Ephiteach turned away horrified, refusing to keep company with the merciless son of Robert the Mighty. He did not hear a wellturned compliment on his chicken-heartedness with which his cousin greeted his departure. Ever after, the gun which did such fearful work was MacRobaidh's favourite weapon, and his inseparable companion.

About this time parties of the Black Watch were stationed throughout the Highlands, and the Factar Mor of the Cluny— ancestor of the late Breda-was captain of a party in Braemar. While scouring the hills with his men one day, he fell in with a band of Kern on the Cairnwall. As they had no booty in their possession, the Factor did not think proper to enter into hostilities, but wished to warn them that they would do well to retire home. The chief of the Kern, such a man as you would seldom see for size and might, invited him to come forward and speak with him. It was thought more advisable, however, to depute the Ephiteach in his stead, as the movements of the robbers did not seem altogether satisfactory. The Ephiteach met his man halfway to confer, but nothing was farther from the Kern's mind, for the gigantic fellow rushed on our hero and bore him to the ground in a moment. The Ephiteach felt rather uncomfortable, when he saw his foe's dirk flashing over his head; but with the speed of lightning, he caught his sleeve and drew his arm aside. The Black Watch lost not a moment in hurrying up, when they saw the robber assault their comrade, so that the Ephiteach had but two other attempts at dirking to withstand, when a bullet whistled through his enemy's breast, which brought him with a gush of blood down nerveless above him. By the time he had disencumbered himself his friends were be side him, and the Kern, having lost their leader, escaped to the hills. This was one of the Ephiteach's many encounters with straggling freebooters, and that in which his life ran the greatest risk. He had acquired considerable repute for his prowess, and his deeds were the theme of the country generally.

One man envied his fame. When the horn of the Ephiteach's fame was sounded, and his encounters with the freebooters rehearsed, he would constantly exclaim—

"Oh! nan robh mise sin.

Oh! that I had been there."

The Scholar-so he was called-got only laughed at for a vain

braggart, and people wished that he really might be there, to take down his conceit a bit. So fortune seconding his own and so many other aspirations, at length afforded him an opportunity to try his valour. The Scholar, with his son, a boy of some twelve or fifteen years of age, and the Ephiteach, were knocking about among the hills, and so came on four Kern, all proper gallant men. "Now, Scholar, you are here to-day, what say you to a 'tuilzie' with those four fellows ?"

"An ye love me, let be so!" replied the Scholar, who really was not a coward.

They had but one gun; the Kern had none, so the Ephiteach, as tactitian, proceeded to give his instructions.

"You, my little boy, take the gun and hold at those two mid-fellows, turning from the one to the other as often as possible, but don't fire till I give the order. Scholar, take you the left, I'll take the right hand man, and now forward."

The Kern stood their ground, and allowed our braves to come up. The Ephiteach had so arranged that the stoutest to appearance of their opponents fell to the Scholar. His son acting after "instruction's warning voice," kept up a bold front, and aiming at the two in the centre alternately, paralysed their movements. The Ephiteach rushed in on his man, and having the feeblest of the party to deal with, soon beat him down. He was then able to relieve the boy, about to be out-generalled by the two he had to keep in check. The Scholar, meanwhile, was fighting manfully against fearfully superior skill and prowess. When the Ephiteach engaged his second opponent, his companion made a dash with drawn sword at the artillery.

"He'll kill me now; he'll kill me now!" cried the youngster, falling back and eluding the Kern.

"Can't you kill him then ?" replied the Ephiteach, giving a glance round.

The lad fired, and down rolled the man. It was not a moment too soon. The Scholar had fallen, and his opponent was preparing to dirk him. His son dutifully hurried to the rescue, and seizing the Kern's kilt, gave him a tug which, as he knelt over the poor Scholar, overbalanced him to that side. The lad deftly evaded any blow aimed at himself, and ever as the Kern strove to regain his kneeling posture, tugged at him again, so managing to prevent the use of the drawn dirk against his father. At length the Ephiteach wound up his transactions with his second foe, and effectively relieved the Scholar with one cut of his sword through the outstanding robber's head. In after time, when the Scholar heard of feats of arms, he would no longer exclaim—

"Oh! nan robh mise sin."