Barr Robert
A Prince of Good Fellows
“I’ve heard many a strange tale,” said the king, “but this beats anything in my experience.”
“Oh there’s a great deal to be picked up by tramping the roads,” replied Hutchinson sagely.
“What is your crime?” inquired his majesty.
“Oh, the crime’s neither here nor there. If they want to hang a man, they’ll hang him crime or no crime.”
“But why should they want to hang a man with so many friends?”
“Well, you see a man may have many friends and yet two or three powerful enemies. My crime, as you call it, is that I’m related to the Douglases; that’s the real crime; but that’s not what I’m to be hanged for. Oh no, it’s all done according to the legal satisfaction of the lawyers. I’m hanged for treason to the king; a right royal crime, that dubs a man a gentleman as much as if the king’s sword slaps his bended back; a crime that better men than me have often suffered for, and that many will suffer for yet ere kings are abolished, I’m thinking. You see, as I said, I married into the Douglas family, and when the Earl of Angus let this young sprig of a king slip through his fingers, it was as much as one’s very life was worth to whisper the name of Douglas. Now I think the Earl of Angus a good man, and when he was driven to England, and the Douglases scattered far and wide by this rapscallion callant with a crown on his head, I being an outspoken man, gave my opinion of the king, damn him, and there were plenty to report it. I did not deny it, indeed I do not deny it to-day, therefore my neck’s like to be longer before the sun goes down.”
“But surely,” exclaimed the beggar, “they will not hang a man in Scotland for merely saying a hasty word against the king?”
“There’s more happens in this realm than the king kens of, and all done in his name too. But to speak truth, there was a bit extra against me as well. A wheen of the daft bodies in Stirling made up a slip of a plot to trap the king and put him in hiding for a while until he listened to what they called reason. There were two weavers among them and weavers are always plotting; a cobbler, and such like people, and they sent word, would I come and help them. I was fool enough to write them a note, and entrusted it to their messenger. I told them to leave the king alone until I came to Stirling, and then I would just nab him myself, put him under my oxter and walk down towards the Border with him, for I knew that if they went on they’d but lose their silly heads. And so, wishing no harm to the king, I made my way to Stirling, but did not get within a mile of it, for they tripped me up at St. Ninians, having captured my letter. So I was sentenced, and it seems the king found out all about their plot as I knew he would, and pardoned the men who were going to kidnap him, while the man who wanted to stop such foolishness is to be hanged in his name.”
“That seems villainously unfair,” said the beggar. “Didn’t the eleven try to do anything for you?”
“How do you know there were eleven?” cried Hutchinson, turning round upon him.
“I thought you said eleven.”
“Well, maybe I did, maybe I did; yes, there were eleven of them. They never got my letter. Their messenger was a traitor, as is usually the case, and merely told them I would have nothing to do with their foolish venture; and that brings me to the point I have been coming to. You see although I would keep my word in any case, yet I’m not so feared to approach St. Ninians as another man might be. Young Jamie, the king, seems to have more sense in his noodle than he gets credit for. Some of his forbears would have snapped off the heads of that eleven without thinking more of the matter, but he seems to have recognised they were but poor silly bodies, and so let them go. Now the moment they set me at liberty, a week since, I got a messenger I could trust, and sent him to the cobbler, Flemming by name. I told Flemming I was to be hanged, but he had still a week to get me a reprieve. I asked him to go to the king and tell him the whole truth of the matter, so I’m thinking that a pardon will be on the scaffold there before me; still, the disappointment of the hundreds waiting to see the hanging will be great.”
“Good God!” cried the beggar aghast, stopping dead in the middle of the road and regarding his comrade with horror.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked the big man stopping also.
“Has it never occurred to you that the king may be away from the palace, and no one in the place able to find him?”
“No one able to find the King of Scotland? That’s an unheard-of thing.”
“Listen to me, Hutchinson. Let us avoid St. Ninians, and go direct to Stirling; it’s only a mile or two further on. Let us see the cobbler before running your neck into a noose.”
“But, man, the cobbler will be at St. Ninians, either with a pardon or to see me hanged, like the good friend he is.”
“There will be no pardon at St. Ninians. Let us to Stirling; let us to Stirling. I know that the king has not been at home for a week past.”
“How can you know that?”
“Never mind how I know it. Will you do what I tell you?”
“Not I! I’m a lad o’ my word.”
“Then you are a doomed man. I tell you the king has not been in Stirling since you left St. Ninians.” Then with a burst of impatience James cried, “You stubborn fool, I am the king!”
At first the big man seemed inclined to laugh, and he looked over the beggar from top to toe, but presently an expression of pity overspread his countenance, and he spoke soothingly to his comrade.
“Yes, yes, my man,” he said, “I knew you were the king from the very first. Just sit down on this stone for a minute and let me examine that clip you got on the top of the head. I fear me it’s worse than I thought it was.”
“Nonsense,” cried the king, “my head is perfectly right; it is yours that is gone aglee.”
“True enough, true enough,” continued Hutchinson mildly, in the tone that he would have used towards a fractious child, “and you are not the first that’s said it. But let us get on to St. Ninians.”
“No, let us make direct for Stirling.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” continued Hutchinson in the same tone of exasperating tolerance. “I’ll to St. Ninians and let them know the king’s pardon’s coming. You’ll trot along to Stirling, put on your king’s clothes and then come and set me free. That’s the way we’ll arrange it, my mannie.”
The king made a gesture of despair, but remained silent, and they walked rapidly down the road together. They had quitted the forest, and the village of St. Ninians was now in view. As they approached the place more nearly, Hutchinson was pleased to see that a great crowd had gathered to view the hanging. He seemed to take this as a personal compliment to himself; as an evidence of his popularity.
The two made their way to the back of the great assemblage where a few soldiers guarded an enclosure within which was the anxious sheriff and his minor officials.
“Bless me, Baldy!” cried the sheriff in a tone of great relief, “I thought you had given me the slip.”
“Ye thought naething o’ the kind, sheriff,” rejoined Baldy complacently. “I said I would be here, and here I am.”
“You are just late enough,” grumbled the sheriff. “The people have been waiting this two hours.”
“They’ll think it all the better when they see it,” commented Baldy. “I was held back a bit on the road. Has there no message come from the king?”
“Could you expect it, when the crime’s treason?” asked the sheriff impatiently, “but there’s been a cobbler here that’s given me more bother than twenty kings, and cannot be pacified. He says the king’s away from Stirling, and this execution must be put by for another ten days, which is impossible.”
“Allow me a word in your ear privately,” said the beggar to the sheriff.
“I’ll see you after the job’s done,” replied the badgered man. “I have no more places to give away, you must just stand your chances with the mob.”
Baldy put his open hand to the side of his mouth and whispered to the sheriff:
“This beggar man,” he said, “has been misused by a gang of thieves in Torwood Forest.”
“I cannot attend to that now,” rejoined the sheriff with increasing irritation.
“No, no,” continued Baldy suavely, “it’s no that, but he’s got a frightful dunner on the top o’ the head, and he thinks he’s the king.”
“I am the king,” cried the beggar, overhearing the last word of caution, “and I warn you, sir, that you proceed with this execution at your peril. I am James of Scotland, and I forbid the hanging.”
At this moment there broke through the insufficient military guard a wild unkempt figure, whose appearance caused trepidation to the already much-tried sheriff.
“There’s the crazy cobbler again,” he moaned dejectedly. “Now the fat’s all in the fire. I think I’ll hang the three of them, trial or no trial.”
“Oh, your majesty!” cried the cobbler, – and it was hard to say which of the two was the more disreputable in appearance, – “this man Hutchinson is innocent. You will surely not allow the hanging to take place, now you are here.”
“I’ll not allow it, if I can prevent it, and can get this fool of a sheriff to listen.”
“Fool of a sheriff! say you,” stuttered that official in rising anger. “Here, guard, take these two ragamuffins into custody, and see that they are kept quiet till this hanging’s done with. Hutchinson, get up on the scaffold; this is all your fault. Hangman, do your duty.”
Baldy Hutchinson, begging the cobbler to make no further trouble, mounted the steps leading to the platform, the hangman close behind him. Before the guard could lay hands on the king, he sprang also up the steps, and took a place on the outward edge of the scaffold. Raising his hand, he demanded silence.
“I am James, King of Scotland,” he proclaimed in stentorian tones. “I command you as loyal subjects to depart to your homes. There will be no execution to-day. The king reprieves Baldy Hutchinson.”
The cobbler stood at the king’s back, and when he had ended, lifted his voice and shouted, —
“God save the King!”
The mob heard the announcement in silence, and then a roar of laughter followed, as they gazed at the two tattered figures on the edge of the platform. But the laughter was followed by an ominous howl of rage, as they understood that they were like to be cheated of a spectacle.
“Losh, I’ll king him,” shouted the indignant sheriff, as he mounted the steps, and before the beggar or his comrade could defend themselves, that official with his own hands precipitated them down among the assemblage at the foot of the scaffold. And now the spirit of a wild beast was let loose among the rabble. The king and his henchman staggered to their feet and beat off, as well as they could, the multitude that pressed vociferously upon them. A soldier, struggling through, tried to arrest the beggarman, but the king nimbly wrested his sword from him, and circled the blade in the air with a venomous hiss of steel that caused the nearer portion of the mob to press back eagerly, as, a moment before, they had pressed forward. The man who swung a blade like that was certainly worthy of respect, be he beggar or monarch. The cobbler’s face was grimed and bleeding, but the king’s newly won sword cleared a space around him. And now the bellowing voice of Baldy Hutchinson made itself heard above the din.
“Stand back from him,” he shouted. “They’re decent honest bodies, even if they’ve gone clean mad.”
But now these at the back of the crowd were forcing the others forward, and Baldy saw that in spite of the sword, his old and his new friend would be presently engulfed. He turned to one of the upright posts of the scaffold and gave it a tremendous shuddering kick; then reaching up to the cross-bar and exerting his Samson-like strength, he wrenched it with a crash of tearing wood down from its position, and armed with this formidable weapon he sprung into the mob, scattering it right and left with his hangman’s beam.
“A riot and a rescue!” roared the sheriff. “Mount, Trooper MacKenzie, and ride as if the devil were after you to Stirling; to Stirling, man, and bring back with you a troop of the king’s horse.”
“We must stop that man getting to Stirling,” said Baldy, “or he’ll have the king’s men on you. I’ll clear a way for you through the people, and then you two must take leg bail for it to the forest.”
“Stand where you are,” said the beggar. “The king’s horse is what I want to see.”
“Dods, you’ll see them soon enough. Look at that gallop!”
MacKenzie indeed had lost no time in getting astride his steed, and was now disappearing towards Stirling like the wind. The more timorous of the assemblage, fearing the oncoming of the cavalry, which usually made short work of all opposition, caring little who was trampled beneath horses’ hoofs, began to disperse, and seek stations of greater safety than the space before the scaffold afforded.
“Believe me,” said Baldy earnestly to his two friends, “you’d better make your legs save your throttle. This is a hanging affair for you as well as for me, for you’ve interfered with the due course of the law.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve done so,” said the beggar with great composure, and shortly after they heard the thunder of horses’ hoofs coming from the north.
“Thank God!” said the sheriff when he heard the welcome sound. The mob dissolved and left a free passage for the galloping cavalcade. The stout Baldy Hutchinson and his two comrades stood alone to receive the onset.
The king took a few steps forward, raised his sword aloft and shouted, —
“Halt, Sir Donald!”
Sir Donald Sinclair obeyed the command so suddenly that his horse’s front feet tore up the turf as he reined back, while his sharp order to the troop behind him brought the company to an almost instantaneous stand.
“Sir Donald,” said the king, “I am for Stirling with my two friends here. See that we are not followed, and ask this hilarious company to disperse quietly to their homes. Do it kindly, Sir Donald. There is no particular hurry, and they have all the afternoon before them. Bring your troop back to Stirling in an hour or two.”
“Will your majesty not take my horse?” asked Sir Donald Sinclair.
“No, Donald,” replied the king with a smile, glancing down at his rags. “Scottish horsemen have always looked well in the saddle; yourself are an example of that, and I have no wish to make this costume fashionable as a riding suit.”
The sheriff who stood by with dropped jaw, now flung himself on his knees and craved pardon for laying hands on the Lord’s anointed.
“The least said of that the better,” remarked the king drily. “But if you are sorry, sheriff, that the people should be disappointed at not seeing a man hanged, I think you would make a very good substitute for my big friend Baldy here.”
The sheriff tremulously asserted that the populace were but too pleased at this exhibition of the royal clemency.
“If that is the case then,” replied his majesty, “we shall not need to trouble you. And so, farewell to you!”
The king, Baldy, and the cobbler took the road towards Stirling, and Sir Donald spread out his troop to intercept traffic in that direction. Advancing toward the bewildered crowd, Sir Donald spoke to them.
“You will go quietly to your homes,” he said. “You have not seen the hanging, but you have witnessed to-day what none in Scotland ever saw before, the king intervene personally to save a doomed man; therefore, be satisfied, and go home.”
Some one in the mob cried, —
“Hurrah for the poor man’s king! Cheer, lads, cheer!” A great uproar was lifted to the skies; afar off the three pedestrians heard it, and Baldy, the man of many friends, taking the clamour as a public compliment to himself, waved his bonnet at the distant vociferous multitude.
The King’s Visit
“No, no,” said the king decisively, “Bring them in, bring them in. I’ll have none cast into prison without at least a hearing. Have any of your men been killed?”
“No, your majesty,” replied Sir Donald, “but some of them have wounds they will not forget in a hurry; the Highlandmen fought like tiger-cats.”
“How many are there of them?” asked the king.
“Something more than a score, with a piper that’s noisier than the other twenty, led by a breechless ruffian, although I must say he knows what to do with a sword.”
“All armed, you say?”
“Every one of them but the piper. About half an hour ago they came marching up the main street of Stirling, each man with his sword drawn, and the pipes skirling death and defiance. They had the whole town at their heels laughing and jeering at them and imitating the wild Highland music. At first, they paid little attention to the mob that followed them, but in the square their leader gave a word in Gaelic, and at once the whole company swerved about and charged the crowd. There was instant panic among the townspeople, who fled in all directions out-screaming the pibroch in their fright. No one was hurt, for the Highlandmen struck them with the flat of their swords, but several were trampled under foot and are none the better for it.”
“It serves them right,” commented the king. “I hope it will teach them manners, towards strangers, at least. What followed?”
“A whistle from their leader collected his helots again, and so they marched straight from the square to the gates of the castle. The two soldiers on guard crossed pikes before them, but the leader, without a word, struck down their weapons and attempted to march in, brave as you please; who but they! There was a bit of a scuffle at the gate, then the bugle sounded and we surrounded them, trying to disarm them peaceably at first, but they fought like demons, and so there’s some sore heads among them.”
“You disarmed them, of course?”
“Certainly, your majesty.”
“Very well; bring them in and let us hear what they have to say for themselves.”
The doors were flung open, a sharp command was given, and presently there entered the group of Highlanders, disarmed and with their elbows tied behind their backs. A strong guard of the soldiery accompanied them on either side. The Highlanders were men of magnificent physique, a quality that was enhanced by the picturesque costume they wore, in spite of the fact that in some instances, this costume was in tatters, and the wearers cut and bleeding. But, stalwart as his followers were, their leader far outmeasured them in height and girth; a truly magnificent specimen of the human race, who strode up the long room with an imperial swagger such as had never before been seen in Stirling, in spite of the fact that his arms were pinioned. He marched on until he came before the king, and there took his stand, without any indication of bowing his bonneted head, or bending his sturdy bare knees. The moment the leader set his foot across the threshold, the unabashed piper immediately protruded his chest, and struck up the wild strain of “Failte mhic an Abba,” or the Salute to the Chief.
“Stop it, ye deevil!” cried the captain of the guard. “How dare you set up such a squawking in the presence of the king?” and as the piper paid not the slightest attention to him, he struck the mouth-piece from the lips of the performer. This, however, did not cause a cessation of the music, for the bag under the piper’s elbow was filled with wind and the fingers of the musician bravely kept up the strain on the reed chanter with its nine holes, and thus he played until his chief came to a stand before the king. The king gazed with undisguised admiration upon the foremost Highlander, and said quietly to the captain of the guard, —
“Unbind him!”
On finding his arms released, the mountaineer stretched them out once or twice, then folded them across his breast, making no motion however to remove his plumed bonnet, although every one else in the room except himself and his men were uncovered.
“You have come in from the country,” began the king, a suspicion of a smile hovering about his lips, “to enjoy the metropolitan delights of Stirling. How are you satisfied with your reception?”
The big Highlandman made no reply, but frowned heavily, and bestowed a savage glance on several of the courtiers, among whom a light ripple of laughter had run after the king put his question.
“These savages,” suggested Sir Donald, “do not understand anything but the Gaelic. Is it your majesty’s pleasure that the interpreter be called?”
“Yes, bring him in.”
When the interpreter arrived, the king said, —
“Ask this man if his action is the forefront of a Highland invasion of the Lowlands, or merely a little private attempt on his own part to take the castle by assault?”
The interpreter put the question in Gaelic, and was answered with gruff brevity by the marauder. The interpreter, bowing low to the king, said smoothly, —
“This man humbly begs to inform your majesty – ”
“Speak truth, MacPherson!” cautioned the king. “Translate faithfully exactly what he says. Our friend here, by the look of him, does not do anything humbly, or fawn or beg. Translate accurately. What does he say?”
The polite MacPherson was taken aback by this reproof, but answered, —
“He says, your majesty, he will hold no communication with me, because I am of an inferior clan, which is untrue. The MacPhersons were a civilised clan centuries ago, which the MacNabs are not to this day, so please your majesty.”
The MacNab’s hand darted to his left side, but finding no sword to his grasp, it fell away again.
“You are a liar!” cried the chief in very passable English which was not to be misunderstood. “The MacPhersons are no clan, but an insignificant branch of the Chattan. ‘Touch not the Cat’ is your motto, and a good one, for a MacPherson can scratch but he cannot handle the broadsword.”
MacPherson drew himself up, his face reddening with anger. His hand also sought instinctively the hilt of his sword, but the presence in which he stood restricted him.
“It is quite safe,” he said with something like the spit of a cat, “for a heathen to insult a Christian in the presence of his king, and the MacNabs have ever shown a taste for the cautious cause.”
“Tut, tut,” cried the king with impatience, “am I to find myself involved in a Highland feud in my own hall? MacPherson, it seems this man does not require your interpreting, so perhaps it will further the peace of our realm if you withdraw quietly.”
MacPherson with a low obeisance, did so; then to MacNab the king spoke, —
“Sir, as it appears you are acquainted with our language, why did you not reply to the question I put to you?”
“Because I would have you know it was not the proper kind of question to ask the like of me. I am a descendant of kings.”
“Well, as far as that goes, I am a descendant of kings myself, though sorry I should be to defend all their actions.”
“Your family only began with Robert the Bruce; mine was old ere he came to the throne.”
“That may well be, still you must admit that what Robert lacked in ancestry, he furnished forth in ability.”
“But the Clan MacNab defeated him at the battle of Del Rhi.”
“True, with some assistance, which you ignore, from Alexander of Argyll. However, if this discussion is to become a competition in history, for the benefit of our ignorant courtiers, I may be allowed to add that my good ancestor, Robert, did not forget the actions of the MacNabs at Del Rhi, and later overran their country, dismantled their fortresses, leaving the clan in a more sane and chastened condition than that in which he found it. But what has all this to do with your coming storming into a peaceable town like Stirling?”
“In truth, your majesty,” whispered Sir David Lyndsay, “I think they must have come to replenish their wardrobe, and in that they are not a moment too soon.”
“I came,” said the chief, who had not heard this last remark, “because of the foray you have mentioned. I came because Robert the Bruce desolated our country.”
“By my good sword!” cried James, “speaking as one king to another, your revenge is somewhat belated, a lapse of two centuries should have outlawed the debt. Did you expect then to take Stirling with twenty men?”
“I expected King James the Fifth to rectify the wrong done by King Robert the First.”
“Your expectation does honour to my reputation as a just man, but I have already disclaimed responsibility for the deeds of ancestors less remote than good King Robert.”
“You have made proclamation in the Highlands that the chieftains must bring you proof of their right to occupy their lands.”
“I have, and some have preferred to me their deeds of tenure, others prepared to fight; the cases have been settled in both instances. To which of these two classes do you belong, Chief of the Clan MacNab?”
“To neither. I cannot submit to you our parchments because Robert, your ancestor, destroyed them. I cannot fight the army of the Lowlands because my clan is small, therefore I, Finlay MacNab, fifth of my name, as you are fifth of yours, come to you in peace, asking you to repair the wrong done by your ancestor.”
“Indeed!” cried the king. “If the present advent typifies your idea of a peaceful visit, then God forfend that I should ever meet you in anger.”
“I came in peace and have been shamefully used.”
“You must not hold that against us,” said James. “Look you now, if I had come storming at your castle door, sword in hand, how would you have treated me, Finlay the Fifth?”
“If you had come with only twenty men behind you, I should treat you with all the hospitality of Glendochart, which far exceeds that of Stirling or any other part of your money-making Lowlands, where gold coin is valued more than a steel blade.”
“It has all been a mistake,” said the king with great cordiality. “The parchment you seek shall be given you, and I trust that your generosity, Lord of Glendochart, will allow me to amend your opinion of Stirling hospitality. I shall take it kindly if you will be my guests in the castle until my officers of law repair the harshness of my ancestor, Robert.” Then, turning to the guard the king continued, —
“Unbind these gentlemen, and return to them their arms.”
While the loosening of the men was rapidly being accomplished, the captain of the guard brought the chief his sword, and would have presented it to him, but the king himself rose and took the weapon in his own hand, tendering it to its owner. The chieftain accepted the sword and rested its point on the floor, then in dignified native courtesy, he doffed his broad, feathered bonnet.
“Sire,” he said, with slow deliberation, “Scotland has a king that this good blade shall ever be proud to serve.”
For three days, the MacNabs were the guests of the king in the castle, while the legal documents were being prepared. King and chieftain walked the town together, and all that Stirling had to show, MacNab beheld. The king was desirous of costuming, at his own expense, the portion of the clan that was now in his castle, whose disarray was largely due to his own soldiers, but he feared the proposal might offend the pride of Finlay the Fifth.
James’s tact, however, overcame the difficulty.
“When I visit you, MacNab, over by Loch Tay, there is one favour I must ask; I want your tailors to make for me and the men of my following, suits of kilts in the MacNab tartan.”
“Surely, surely,” replied the chief, “and a better weaving you will get nowhere in the Highlands.”
“I like the colour of it,” continued the king. “There is a royal red in it that pleases me. Now there is a good deal of red in the Stuart tartan, and I should be greatly gratified if you would permit your men to wear my colours, as my men shall wear yours. My tailors here will be proud to boast that they have made costumes for the Clan MacNab. You know what tradesmen bodies are, they’re pleased when we take a little notice of them.”
“Surely,” again replied MacNab, more dubiously, “and I shall send them the money for it when I get home.”
“Indeed,” said the king, “if you think I am going to have a full purse when I’m in the MacNab country, you’re mistaken.”
“I never suggested such a thing,” replied the chief indignantly. “You’ll count nane o’ yer ain bawbees when you are with me.”
“Ah, well,” rejoined the king, “that’s right, and so you will just leave me to settle with my own tailors here.”
Thus the re-costuming came about, and all in all it was just as well that MacNab did not insist on his own tartan, for there was none of it in Stirling, while of the Stuart plaid there was a sufficiency to clothe a regiment.
On the last night, there was a banquet given which was the best that Stirling could bestow, in honour of the Clan MacNab. The great hall was decorated with the colours of the clan, and at the further end had been painted the arms of the MacNab – the open boat, with its oars, on the sea proper, the head of the savage, the two supporting figures and the Latin motto underneath, “Timor omnis abseto”. Five pipers of the king’s court had learned the Salute to the Chief, and now, headed by MacNab’s own, they paced up and down the long room, making it ring with their war-like music. The king and the chieftain came in together, and as the latter took his place at his host’s right hand, his impassive face betrayed no surprise at the splendid preparations which had been made for his reception. Indeed, the Highlanders all acted as if they had been accustomed to sit down to such a banquet every night. Many dainties were placed on the ample board cunningly prepared by foreign cooks, the like of which the Highlanders had never before tasted; but the mountaineers ate stolidly whatever was set in front of them, and if unusual flavours saluted their palates, the strangers made no sign of approval or the reverse. The red wine of Burgundy, grown old in the king’s cellars, was new to most of them, and they drank it like water, emptying their tankards as fast as the attendant could refill them. Soon the ruddy fluid, whose potency had been under-estimated, began to have its effect, and the dinner table became noisy as the meal progressed, songs bursting forth now and then, with strange shouts and cries more familiar to the hills of Loch Tay than to the rafters of Stirling. The chief himself, lost the solemn dignity which had at first characterised him, and as he emptied flagon after flagon he boasted loudly of the prowess of his clan; foretold what he would do in future fields now that he was allied with the King of Scotland. Often forgetting himself, he fell into the Gaelic, roaring forth a torrent of words that had no meaning for many there present, then remembering the king did not understand the language, he expressed his pity for a man in such condition, saying the Gaelic was the oldest tongue in existence, and the first spoken by human lips upon this earth. It was much more expressive, he said, than the dialect of the Lowlands, and the only language that could fittingly describe war and battle, just as the pibroch was the only music suitable to strife, to all of which the smiling king nodded approval. At last MacNab sprang to his feet, holding aloft his brimming flagon, which literally rained Burgundy down upon him, and called for cheers for the King of Scotland, a worthy prince who knew well how to entertain a brother prince. Repeating this in Gaelic, his men, who had also risen with their chief, now sprang upon the benches, where standing unsteadily, they raised a series of yells so wild that a shudder of fear passed through many of the courtiers there present. The chief, calling to his piper, commanded him instantly to compose a pibroch for the king, and that ready musician, swelling with pride, marched up and down and round and round the great hall pouring forth a triumphal quickstep, with many wonderful flourishes and variations. Then at a word from the chief, each man placed his flagon on the table, whipped out his sword, swung it overhead, to the amazement of the courtiers, for it is not in accord with etiquette to show cold steel to the eyes of the king. Down came the blades instantly and together, each man splitting in two the goblet he had drunk from.
