"Thine must be a dreadful country, Angus MacLean!" The Highlander looked at her with kindling eyes.

"Now had I the harp of old Murdoch!" he said.
"'Dear is that land to the east, Alba of the lakes! Oh, that I might dwell there forever'"-- He turned upon the doorstep, and taking between his fingers the hem of Truelove's apron fell to plaiting it.

"A woman named Deirdre, who lived before the days of Gillean-na-Tuaidhe, made that song.

She was not born in that land, but it was dear to her because she dwelt there with the man whom she loved.

They went away, and the man was slain; and where he was buried, there Deirdre cast herself down and died." His voice changed, and all the melancholy of his race, deep, wild, and tender, looked from his eyes.