The wailing of the pipes carried on the breeze, raising the small hairs on the back of Melcorka"s neck and bringing a smile to the faces of many of the Albans.
"That"s the pipes," Mackintosh"s feet were tapping on the ground in response to the music. "The great highland pipes, and many of them."
"How many?" Melcorka asked.
"A score, maybe more," Mackintosh said. "Listen to the music – that is no amateur. A master piper is directing that." He clambered to the summit of a small knoll and raised his head to the wind. "I would swear that is MacArthur… No, wait, the grace notes are too subtle even for MacArthur. That is MacCrimmon himself, the piper of MacLeod of Dunvegan."
"MacCrimmon?" The bald-headed Shaw whistled. "If that is MacCrimmon, then MacLeod himself is here, and if MacLeod is h
