The members of the Scottish Brotherhood of Action left for Glasgow about midnight, all now as firmly convinced that there was something to be said for Highland chieftains of long authentic lineage still in possession of their land, as the Chieftain himself was now inclined to admit that there was something to be said for young men who desired the glory and grandeur of Scotland. In reaching this opinion he was much encouraged by the performance on the pipes of Mac ’ic Eachainn’s March to Sheriffmuir by Colin Campbell, the student who had been responsible for desecrating the air of Glenbogle with The Campbells are Coming. To sit in his own Great Hall and hear a Campbell piping that tune to a MacDonald was compensation for many historical events which had taken the wrong course.

James Buchanan and Robert Menzies did not go back to Glasgow with the rest of the Brotherhood. They, like Alan Macmillan, were guests of Ben Nevis. The plans for the Keep of Knocknacolly were approved by Chester Royde, and the lawyer and the architect were bidden to go ahead with the work.

“Well,” said Kilwhillie to Ben Nevis, “I never expected to see a cross between the Tower of London and the Crystal Palace at Knocknacolly.”

“You never expected to see the Loch Ness Monster, Hugh, but you did.”

“That’s true, Donald,” said Kilwhillie, pouring himself out a second powerful deoch an doruis.

Chester and Carrie decided it would be politic for Myrtle to go back with them at the end of the month and prepare Mr and Mrs Chester Royde Senior for Alan’s arrival a month or two later.

“Well, I want to be married in November,” Myrtle insisted. “So you’d better be ready to sail a week or two later, Alan. And your mother must see the colouring of the trees in our fall.”

“Well, when you all come back next year,” said Ben Nevis, “you won’t find any hikers in Glenbogle. And next Twelfth I’ll give you the finest sport you ever had, Royde, on Drumcockie.” He raised his glass.

“Slahnjervaw!” he bellowed.

And none had sc little of the Gaelic as not to recognize that one who could now truly be called the Monarch of the Glen was wishing them ‘slainte mhór’ or ‘good health.’

The last word may be spoken by Mr Fletcher in the following little poem which he read aloud after dinner that September night:

“Last August the Twelfth on the moor of Drumcockie,

You conquered, Ben Nevis, a barbarous foe;

You eluded his claws on the braes of Ben Booey

And at last in Glenbogle itself laid him low.

“Though hikers may camp in the rest of the country,

Not a tent shall be seen where Ben Nevis is lord:

Ben Booey, Ben Gorm, Ben Glass and Ben Cruet

Will never bow down to that pestilent horde.

“Salute Mac ’ic Eachainn, the brave and the mighty,