Upon the instant, the lad uncurled himself from the rush-strewn floor and reached for his own set of pipes, listening intently the while. He began to pump up the bag under his arm even as he scrambled to his feet, making ready to carry out his duty of first identifying and then heralding any new arrivals at the policies of Rhuaraidh Macmillan, Sheriff of Fearnshire. Cocking his ear in the direction of the distant pipes, the boy echoed his response with the preliminary notes of a lament. That sound, though, brought the Sheriff to the entrance hall of his dwelling place quickly enough, even though the other bagpipe players were still a mile or more away. ‘They’re playing “The Fearnshire Lament”, my lord,’ said the boy, his own acute hearing demonstrating one of the many advantages of youth to the older man. ‘I ken it well…’ ‘Aye,’ said the Sheriff crisply. ‘I hear it quite clearly myself now…’ Rhuaraidh Macmillan stepped back more than a little thoughtfully while the hall-boy took up the bagpipes’ chanter again and made to answer those heard from afar but as yet still unseen.
