It was a bold demand.

"I cannot take you with me, Donald; the Macleods have got out of the way
of taking their piper with them now. You must stay and look after the
dogs."

"But you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith."

"Yes, I am. I must make sure of having one friend with me in the south."

"And I think I would be better than a collie," muttered the lad to
himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way toward the door, his
cap still in his hand.

And now a great silence fell over these three; and Janet Macleod looked
anxiously toward the old lady, who sat unmoved in the face of the
ordeal through which she knew she must pass. It was an old custom that
each night a pibroch should be played in Castle Dare in remembrance of
her five slain sons; and yet on this one night her niece would fain have
seen that custom abandoned. For was not the pibroch the famous and
pathetic "Cumhadh na Cloinne," the Lament for the Children, that Patrick
Mor, one of the pipers of Macleod of Skye, had composed to the memory of
his seven sons, who had all died within one year? And now the doors were
opened, and the piper boy once more entered. The wild, sad wail arose:
and slow and solemn was the step with which he walked up the hall. Lady
Macleod sat calm and erect, her lips proud and firm, but her lean hands
were working nervously together; and at last, when the doors were closed
on the slow and stately and mournful Lament for the Children, she bent
down the silvery head on those wrinkled hands and wept aloud. Patrick
Mor's seven brave sons could have been no more to him than her six tall