MARCH 91 



It was in that rocky gorge, three or four miles below Loch 

 More, where Thurso abandons its habitual sloth, flinging 

 itself about among the rocks and churning out foam in 

 reckless profusion. I had arrived at a sheltered nook 

 under a cliff crowned by the ruined keep of Dirlot, 

 a grim stronghold which, like every relic of the 

 middle ages in this land, has its record of midnight 

 massacre, fire, and rapine. Below the castle the river 

 glides deep and dark between opposing cliffs, forming a 

 fine salmon-cast, known as the Devil's Pool. Sitting 

 down to eat my luncheon, I bade Sandy take my rod 

 and fish the cast. A gleam of wintry sunshine lighted 

 the weird scene, and, as I watched my gillie casting, I 

 thought it would be hard to match such a fine type of 

 manhood. His unconscious pose was so statuesque, his 

 thigh boots set off his lengthy limbs so well, his action with 

 the rod was so graceful, the brown rocks and browner 

 water threw his sunlit figure into such high and delicate 

 relief, that the picture shines out clearer than most others 

 in the dim gallery of the past. I could not help feeling 

 a trifle envious of such a fine animal, so greatly my 

 superior in stature, strength, and good looks. 



As he fished, he repeatedly scratched his ear, which, 

 when he came from the water, was bleeding a little. He 

 thought it had been chapped by cold. Ah ! little as 

 either of us suspected it, the finger of death was there. 

 When I returned a year later to the Thurso, Sandy 

 Harper was my gillie no more. He was bedridden, 

 smitten with cancer, and when I visited his humble 

 dwelling, those once handsome features were swollen and 

 distorted almost beyond recognition. Only the perfect 

 manners and good breeding of the man were unchanged. 



