Inside, there were a
couple of rough tables, made of boards, one or two even rougher seats, a
quantity of heather in a corner, tops upper-most, to serve as a bed;
farther "ben," some bulky things more than half hidden in the deep gloom
of that part of the hut that was farthest from the door and from the
light of the fire. And over and through everything an all-pervading reek
of peat that brought water to the eyes of those not inured to such an
atmosphere, and caused them to cough grievously. To the Highlander it
was nothing; he had been born in such an atmosphere, and had lived in
it most of his days. But to visitors it was trying, till Donald's Dew of
Cheviot rendered them indifferent to the minor ills of life.
One day, as Donald was busily engaged with his Still, a charge for which
he was just about starting, there came to the door of his hut a man
leading a horse from which he had just dismounted. This man did not wait
for an invitation to enter, but, having made fast his reins to the
branch of a neighbouring rowan tree, walked in and sat down, with a mere
"Good day."
"A ferry goot tay," politely replied Donald. But he was not altogether
happy over the advent of this stranger; there was a something in the
manner of the man that roused suspicion.
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