"But why do you sing such Gaelic as that, John?" said young Lavender
confidently. "I should have thought a man in your position--the last
of the Hebridean bards--would have known the classical Gaelic. Don't
you know the classical Gaelic?"

"There iss only the wan sort of Kâllic, and it is a ferry goot sort of
Kâllic," said the piper with some show of petulance.

"Do you mean to tell me you don't know your own tongue? Do you
not know what the greatest of all the bards wrote about your own
island?--'O et præsidium et dulce decus meum, _agus_, Tityre tu patulæ
recubans sub tegmine _Styornoway_, Arma virumque cano, _Macklyoda_ et
_Borvabost_ sub tegmine fagi?'"

Not only John the Piper, but all the men behind him, began to look
amazed and sorely troubled; and all the more so that Ingram--who had
picked up more Gaelic words than his friend--came to his assistance,
and began to talk to him in this unknown tongue. They heard references
in the conversation to persons and things with which they were
familiar in their own language, but still accompanied by much more
they could not understand.

The men now began to whisper awe-stricken questions to each other; and
at last John the Piper could not restrain his curiosity. "What in ta
name of Kott is tat sort of Kâllic?" he asked, with some look of fear
in his eyes.

"You are not much of a student, John," said Lavender carelessly,
"but still, a man in your position should know something of your own