The sun shone bright, and a keen wind was blowing.
About noon he came in sight of a few sheep, in a sheltered spot, where were little patches of coarse grass among the heather.

On a stone, a few yards above them, sat Gibbie, not reading, as he would be half the time now, but busied with a Pan's-pipes--which, under Donal's direction, he had made for himself--drawing from them experimental sounds, and feeling after the possibility of a melody.
He was so much occupied that he did not see Angus approach, who now stood for a moment or two regarding him.

He was hirsute as Esau, his head crowned with its own plentiful crop--even in winter he wore no cap--his body covered with the wool of the sheep, and his legs and feet with the hide of the deer--the hair, as in nature, outward.
The deer-skin Angus knew for what it was from afar, and concluding it the spoil of the only crime of which he recognized the enormity, whereas it was in truth part of a skin he had himself sold to a saddler in the next village, to make sporrans of, boiled over with wrath, and strode nearer, grinding his teeth.

Gibbie looked up, knew him, and starting to his feet, turned to the hill.

Angus, levelling his gun, shouted to him to stop, but Gibbie only ran the harder, nor once looked round.