XXVI THE WHISKY BOTHIE lyj 



nothing. We kept exploring corrie after corrie till night fell ; 

 and as it was in vain to think of returning to the shealing, which 

 yet was the nearest roof, we were content to find a sort of niche 

 in the rock, tolerably screened from all winds ; and having 

 almost filled it with long heather, flower upwards, we wrapped 

 our plaids round us, and slept pretty comfortably. 



Thursday. — A dip in the burn below our bivouac renovated 

 me. I did not observe that Donald followed my example in 

 that ; but he joined me in a hearty attack on the viands which 

 still remained in our bag ; and we started with renewed courage. 

 About mid-day we came on a shealing beside a long narrow 

 loch, fringed with beautiful weeping-birches, and there we found 

 means to cook some grouse which I had shot to supply our 

 exhausted larder. The shepherd, who had " no Sassenach," 

 cheered us by his report of " the deer " being lately seen, and 

 describing his usual haunts. Donald was plainly getting dis- 

 gusted and home -sick. For myself, I looked upon it as my 

 fate that I must have that hart ; so on we trudged. Repeatedly, 

 that afternoon, we came on the fresh tracks of our chase, but 

 still he remained invisible. As it got dark, the weather sud- 

 denly changed, and I was glad enough to let Donald seek for 

 the bearings of a " whisky bothie " which he had heard of at 

 our last stopping-place. While he was seeking for it the rain 

 began to fall heavily, and through the darkness we were just 

 able to distinguish a dark object, which turned out to be a 

 horse. " The lads with the still will no be far off," said Donald. 

 And so it turned out. But the rain had increased the darkness 

 so much, that we should have searched in vain if I had not 

 distinguished at intervals, between the pelting of the rain and 

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

 appeared to me to be the shrill treble of a fiddle. I could 

 scarcely believe my ears. But when I communicated the 

 intelligence 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 formidable in 

 the dark. However, there was no remedy. So grasping each 

 the other's collar, and holding our guns high over head, we 

 dashed in, and staggered through in safety, though the water 



