He shook the mist drops from
our own plaids, and as I was about to sit down I stopped a moment to
listen.
"That is a tune I never heard on the pipes before," I said. "What is a
piper doing out on the moor so early?"
He listened also. "It must be far away. I don't hear it," he said.
"Perhaps it is a bird whistling."
"It is far away," I answered, "but it is not a bird. It's the pipes, and
playing such a strange tune. There! It has stopped!"
But it was not silent long; I heard the tune begin again much nearer,
and the piper was plainly coming toward us. I turned my head.
The mist was clearing, and floated about like a thin veil through which
one could see objects. At a short distance above us on the moor I saw
something moving. It was a man who was playing the pipes. It was the
piper, and almost at once I knew him, because it was actually my own
Feargus, stepping proudly through the heather with his step like a stag
on the hills. His head was held high, and his face had a sort of elated
delight in it as if he were enjoying himself and the morning and the
music in a new way. I was so surprised that I rose to my feet and called
to him.
"Feargus!" I cried. "What--"
I knew he heard me, because he turned and looked at me with the most
extraordinary smile. He was usually a rather grave-faced man, but this
smile had a kind of startling triumph in it.
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