Of the burial of Hamish and Alpin, and of the solemn rites attending
that ceremony, there is no need to tell. Noble and true were they both,
and well-beloved for their worthiness. But they are dead, and so, as the
old scalds would say, have passed out of the story.
CHAPTER XII. HOW KENRIC WAS MADE KING.
On a day in June, Ailsa Redmain, well arrayed, went forth from Kilmory
riding behind her father, Sir Oscar, on his sturdy horse. Beside them
walked her brother Allan, with a long staff in his hand, a plaid over
his broad shoulder, and a tall feather in his bonnet.
It was one of the calmest of summer days. The warm sweet smell of the
whin bloom was in the air. The lark sang merrily in the clear sky, and
across the smooth, glassy surface of Ascog loch the herons flew with
heavy, indolent wings.
Seeing a pair of these birds flying near, Sir Oscar turned to his son.
"Were we not otherwise employed," said he, "this were a glorious day,
Allan, on which to fly our young hawks at these herons. The birds will
lose their cunning if they be not better exercised. Know you if poor
Alpin had set aside a pair of gerfalcons for his Majesty's tribute?"
"'Tis but seven days ago that we were out together, Alpin and I," said
Allan, "and never saw I a better trained pair of hawks than those that
are now in keeping at Rothesay against the time when the tribute must be
paid.
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