WILD SPORTS OF THE HIGHLANDS 



guished at intervals, between the pelting of the rain and the 

 heavy rushing of a black burn that ran beside us, what ap- 

 peared tome tobe the shrill treble of a fiddle. I could scarcely 

 believe myears. But when I communicated theintelligence 

 to Donald, whose ears were less acute, he jumped with joy. 

 "It's all right enough, sir; just follow the sound; it's that 

 drunken deevil, Sandy Ross; ye'll never haud a fiddle frae 

 him, nor him frae a whisky-still." It was clear the sound 

 came from across the black stream, and it looked formid- 

 able in the dark. However, there was no remedy. So grasp- 

 ing each the other's collar, and holding our guns high over 

 head, we dashed in, and staggered through in safety, though 

 the water was up to my waist, running like a mill-race, and 

 thebottomwas of round slipperystones. Scrambling up the 

 bank, and following the merry sound, we came towhatseem- 

 ed a mere hole in the bank, from which it proceeded. The 

 hole was partially closed by a door woven of heather; and, 

 looking through it, we saw a sight worthy of Teniers. On 

 a barrel in the midst of the apartment — half hut, half cavern 

 — stoodaloft, fiddling with all hismight,theidenticalSandy 

 Ross, while round him danced three unkempt savages; and 

 another figure was stooping, employed over a fire in the 

 corner, where the whisky-pot was in full operation. The 

 fire, and a sliver or two of lighted bog-fir,gave light enough 

 to seethe whole, for theplace was not above ten feet square. 

 We made our approaches withbecomingcaution, and were, 

 it is needless to say,hospitably received; for whoever heard 

 of Highland smugglers refusing a welcome to sportsmen. <* 

 We got rest, food, and tire — allthatwerequired — and some- 

 thingmore; forlongafter I had betaken me to thedry heather 



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