I turned my head.
The mist was clearing, and floated about like a thin veil through which one could see objects.

At a short distance above us on the moor I saw something moving.

It was a man who was playing the pipes.

It was the piper, and almost at once I knew him, because it was actually my own Feargus, stepping proudly through the heather with his step like a stag on the hills.

His head was held high, and his face had a sort of elated delight in it as if he were enjoying himself and the morning and the music in a new way.