Похищенный

           AsforAlan,hisfacegrewdarkandhot,andhesatandgnawedhisfingers,likeamanundersomedeepaffront.“Enough!”hecried.“Yecanblowthepipes—makethemostofthat.”Andhemadeasiftorise.

           ButRobinonlyheldouthishandasiftoaskforsilence,andstruckintotheslowmeasureofapibroch.Itwasafinepieceofmusicinitself,andnoblyplayed;butitseems,besides,itwasapiecepeculiartotheAppinStewartsandachieffavouritewithAlan.Thefirstnoteswerescarceout,beforetherecameachangeinhisface;whenthetimequickened,heseemedtogrowrestlessinhisseat;andlongbeforethatpiecewasatanend,thelastsignsofhisangerdiedfromhim,andhehadnothoughtbutforthemusic.

           “RobinOig,”hesaid,whenitwasdone,“yeareagreatpiper.Iamnotfittoblowinthesamekingdomwithye.Bodyofme!yehavemairmusicinyoursporranthanIhaveinmyhead!AndthoughitstillsticksinmymindthatIcouldmaybeshowyeanotherofitwiththecoldsteel,Iwarnyebeforehand—it’llnobefair!Itwouldgoagainstmyhearttohaggleamanthatcanblowthepipesasyoucan!”

           Thereuponthatquarrelwasmadeup;allnightlongthebrosewasgoingandthepipeschanginghands;andthedayhadcomeprettybright,andthethreemenwerenonethebetterforwhattheyhadbeentaking,beforeRobinasmuchasthoughtupontheroad.