The tradition runs that the hereditary bard of the tribe took his seat on a rock which overhung the place of slaughter, and poured forth a long lament over his murdered brethren, and his desolate home.
Eighty years later that sad dirge was still repeated by the population of the valley.

[233] The survivors might well apprehend that they had escaped the shot and the sword only to perish by famine.

The whole domain was a waste.
Houses, barns, furniture, implements of husbandry, herds, flocks, horses, were gone.

Many months must elapse before the clan would be able to raise on its own ground the means of supporting even the most miserable existence.

[234] It may be thought strange that these events should not have been instantly followed by a burst of execration from every part of the civilised world.