and of harsh doings in the Outer Isles. It was far more than a
political grievance. It was the lament of the conservative for vanished
days and manners. 'Over in Skye wass the fine land for black cattle,
and every man had his bit herd on the hillside. But the lairds said it
wass better for sheep, and then they said it wass not good for sheep,
so they put it under deer, and now there is no black cattle anywhere
in Skye.' I tell you it was like sad music on the bagpipes hearing that
old fellow. The war and all things modern meant nothing to him; he
lived among the tragedies of his youth and his prime.

I'm a Tory myself and a bit of a land-reformer, so we agreed well
enough. So well, that I got what I wanted without asking for it. I
told him I was going to Skye, and he offered to take me over in his
boat in the morning. 'It will be no trouble. Indeed no. I will be
going that way myself to the fishing.'

I told him that after the war, every acre of British soil would
have to be used for the men that had earned the right to it. But that
did not comfort him. He was not thinking about the land itself, but
about the men who had been driven from it fifty years before. His
desire was not for reform, but for restitution, and that was past the
power of any Government. I went to bed in the loft in a sad,
reflective mood, considering how in speeding our newfangled
plough we must break down a multitude of molehills and how
desirable and unreplaceable was the life of the moles.

In brisk, shining weather, with a wind from the south-east, we
put off next morning. In front was a brown line of low hills, and
behind them, a little to the north, that black toothcomb of mountain range
which I had seen the day before from the Arisaig ridge.