Beyond, the hills northwards and westwards stood high in white majesty,
save where the black crags of Glen Urtach broke the line, and, above our
lower Grampians, we caught glimpses of the distant peaks that lifted
their heads in holiness unto God.

It seemed to me a fitting day for William MacLure's funeral, rather than
summer time, with its flowers and golden corn. He had not been a soft
man, nor had he lived an easy life, and now he was to be laid to rest
amid the austere majesty of winter, yet in the shining of the sun. Jamie
Soutar, with whom I toiled across the Glen, did not think with me, but
was gravely concerned.

"Nae doot it's a graund sicht; the like o't is no gien tae us twice in
a generation, an' nae king wes ever carried tae his tomb in sic a
cathedral.

"But it's the fouk a'm conseederin', an' hoo they'll win through; it's
hard eneuch for them 'at's on the road, an' it's clean impossible for
the lave.

[Illustration: "TOILED ACROSS THE GLEN"]

"They 'ill dae their best, every man o' them, ye may depend on that,
an' hed it been open weather there wudna hev been six able-bodied
men missin'.

"A' wes mad at them, because they never said onything when he wes
leevin', but they felt for a' that what he hed dune, an', a' think, he
kent it afore he deed.