The Vale of Glencoe

Episode #96
Aired: 24 April 1949


CHAPPELL: Quiet, please. (PAUSE) Quiet, please.

(MUSIC ... THEME ... FADE FOR)

ANNOUNCER: The American Broadcasting Company presents "Quiet, Please," which 
is written and directed by Wyllis Cooper and which features Ernest Chappell. 
"Quiet, Please" for today is called "The Vale of Glencoe."

(MUSIC ... THEME ... END)

ALAN: (NARRATES) You go right through Santa Barbara on the coast road, then 
six miles later, at Goleta, 150 branches off to the right, up through Gaviota 
Pass. Named for the seagull that Gaspar de Portolá shot there in Seventeen 
Sixty-Nine. The road leads up through the Santa Ynez Mountains, up to the old 
mission Santa Inés, that's been there since Eighteen Hundred and Four. And 
they say the cactus in the garden there was planted by old Fray Estevan Tápis 
himself. 

Now, the way from Goleta, up over the mountains, is a very pleasant way. And 
my mind's eye sees the grey-green sycamores along the ever-rising highway and 
the hills above me reach for the blue bowl of the sky, and the hills are 
pleasant when the winter comes and the rains lay their hands on them to turn 
them from brown to green. 

I would remember the road in the late winter, in February-time; short 
afternoons. It's a good time to remember them, my friend. 

It's a good time to remember them -- and the girl beside me as we ride along 
the groved highways to Santa Inés of an afternoon in February, in Nineteen 
Forty-Four. I'll have you remember that date. I found it very important. 

(MUSIC: ... MOURNFUL ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN: (NARRATES) The girl beside me in the car along the road, the innocent 
hard-worn road that was first trod by the old Franciscan Friars more than two 
centuries ago. The winter green of the hills and the blue of the sky. And an 
uneasiness hurt in my heart, a premonition of darkness and haunted places 
half-remembered, so that the girl felt the edges of my mood and fell silent. 

(MUSIC: ... FADES)

ALAN: (NARRATES) And, after a while, spoke. Spoke as the shadows of the grove 
of sycamores slid along the length of the car and we rode for a moment in the 
shade.

IONA: Tired, Alan?

ALAN: No. Not tired.

IONA: Sad about something?

ALAN: Oh, I don't know what it is; I - I feel depressed.

IONA: Been working too hard at the studio, maybe.

ALAN: Maybe.

IONA: (PAUSE, LIGHTLY) Re-lax!

ALAN: I don't - I don't seem to be able to relax.

IONA: Beautiful afternoon, no worries.

ALAN: I know.

IONA: None of my business, Alan, but... could I help, maybe?

ALAN: I don't know what's the matter with me.

IONA: Lonesome for the war?

ALAN: Hardly.

IONA: I mean, maybe you feel strange being out of it after all that.

ALAN: (SHORT LAUGH) No, I - I had all I wanted of that.

IONA: Want to talk about it? (NO ANSWER) How are the girls out in the South 
Pacific? Pretty?

ALAN: I didn't see any.

IONA: Well, tell me something. How'd you get enough gas to take a trip like 
this with an 'A' card?

ALAN: (DRY) I'm a wounded hero. I get gas.

IONA: I feel a little guilty riding around burning up gas like this.

ALAN: Well, if you'd seen all the gas wasted that I've seen, it wouldn't 
bother you.

IONA: Mmm. 

ALAN: Am I getting you down?

IONA: (UNCONVINCING) Oh, no.

ALAN: I'm sorry.

IONA: Don't mind me. (PAUSE) You have a good time at the Hollywood Canteen 
last night?

ALAN: I got stuck in a corner with a radio actress with orchids.

IONA: Oh. I spent most of the evening with a little English sailor, but not 
English, Scottish. Royal Navy, though.

ALAN: Talk Scots with him?

IONA: About Scotland.

ALAN: You're Scots, aren't you? That where you got that name?

IONA: My father and mother were born there.

ALAN: That name?

IONA: Oh, Iona? Yes, of course. Iona's a Campbell name.

ALAN: "Island" or something.

IONA: Mmm. An island, that's right. I remember my father used to tell me about 
an excursion boat that used to run out to the islands in the Firth of Clyde.

ALAN: Whatever that is.

IONA: The name of the boat was Iona. There was a Canadian on it who had a 
routine about buying the boat. When I was a little girl I used to go into 
hysterics when my father told me how his partner would ask him the boat's name 
and he'd say "Iona," and the straight man would say, "Well, keep 'er, but 
what's the boat's name?" (CHUCKLES)

ALAN: (LAUGHS) Iona. 

IONA: Sure. (LIGHTLY) The right name of "The Campbells Are Coming" is "Baile 
Ionaraora."

ALAN: What's that mean?

IONA: I haven't the slightest idea. (CHUCKLES) Aren't you Scottish, too?

ALAN: MacDonald!

IONA: Oh. Of course.

ALAN: All I know about Scots, though, is I go into Lucy's and ask for 
Glenlivet, finest Scotch whiskey in town. Only place in Hollywood you can get 
it.

IONA: See! You're feeling better again!

ALAN: (DISTRACTED) What?

IONA: I said you're feeling better again.

ALAN: (CONFUSED) I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said.

IONA: Come on, boy, wake up! (CHUCKLES, LIGHTLY) Your name is Alan MacDonald, 
and you're driving a car along California 150, and we're going to see Santa 
Inés Mission.

ALAN: I'm sorry. I was thinking.

IONA: 'Bout what?

ALAN: You said something about "The Campbells Are Coming."

IONA: The what?

ALAN: The pipe music.

IONA: Pipes? (BEAT) Oh! Oh, bagpipes!

ALAN: Yes.

IONA: What about bagpipes?

ALAN: (SLOWLY) That's in the dream, too.

IONA: (YELLS) Look out, Alan! You've gotten off the road!

(MUSIC: ACCENT ... FOR A CAR CRASH ... THEN FAINT ORGAN - "THE CAMPBELL'S ARE 
COMING" ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN: (NARRATES) The words of the old man come back to me slowly. The old man 
in the dream, inside of kilts. Kilts? No. Feileadh-beags of blue and green and 
black, the ancient tartan of the Campbells. The sound of war pipes, ribbons 
fluttering from the great black drones of the war pipes, and the skirl of the 
chanters above the sobs of the women. The sound of men's voices singing above 
the wails of the women. 

(MUSIC: FADES)

ALAN: (SINGS) The Great Argyle he goes before, 
              He makes the cannons and guns to roar...

SOUND: (LONG, LOUD CLAP OF THUNDER ... OR CANNON FIRE)

IONA: (CALLS) Alan? (NO ANSWER) Alan?

ALAN: (SLOWLY, QUIETLY) I'm all right. What happened? 

IONA: Darling. (NERVOUS LAUGHTER) You drove right off the road.

ALAN: I did?

IONA: Look at your beautiful car.

ALAN: (SIGHS)

IONA: Are you hurt?

ALAN: Me? (EXHALES, UNCONVINCING) I'm all right.

IONA: You sure?

ALAN: Me? Yeah. You? You all right? Are you all right?

IONA: I just bumped my head.

ALAN: Let me see. (BEAT) Gee.

IONA: But look at your car.

ALAN: Smashed all to...

IONA: Now what?

ALAN: Gee, I'm sorry Iona. I - I don't know what happened. 

IONA: You just seemed to pass out, kinda.

ALAN: I... I don't know.

IONA: You got out of the hospital too soon, Alan.

ALAN: (EXHALES) I guess I must have.

IONA: Well, sit down. There'll be another car along right away.

ALAN: I better.

IONA: Here.

ALAN: (SITS, EXHALES WITH EFFORT) Thanks.

IONA: Okay.

ALAN: I'm awful sorry, Iona.

IONA: Think nothing of it.

ALAN: What'd I do? Just - just black out?

IONA: You just sat there with your eyes turned up. I never saw anything like 
it. I--

ALAN: I'm sorry.

IONA: And singing.

ALAN: Singing?

IONA: You said you didn't know anything about Scotch things.

ALAN: Huh?

IONA: Where'd you learn the words to "The Campbells Are Coming"?

(MUSIC: ... FOR THE DREAM ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN: (NARRATES) In the dream, the black rocks, the tortured black rocks and 
the high crags above, with the mist drifting down the glen and the waters 
descending and flowing upon the marshy beds where the ghillies dig the brown 
peat from the ground. The place where Man was not meant to exist. A place 
primeval and awful, death-haunted and grisly beyond my words. The very path, 
blood-soaked and horrible, clinging back the light of day and the good yellow 
sunshine, and seeming the very mouth of blackest hell itself.

Where shall I -- waking -- see such desolation? Such - such dismal horror? 

MACIAIN: (OMINOUS) 'Tis the very gate of death.

ALAN: (NARRATES) The voice of the old man. 

MACIAIN: Glencoe.

ALAN: (NARRATES) The tall old man with the white hair. 

MACIAIN: Glencoe.

ALAN: (NARRATES) The old man, the old fox. 

MACIAIN: MacDonald of Glencoe.

(MUSIC: UP FOR AN ACCENT ... THEN OUT)

IONA: It's going to get dark before long, Alan.

ALAN: What time is it?

IONA: My watch stopped.

ALAN: Somebody'll be along.

IONA: I hope so. You cold? I am.

ALAN: Put on my coat.

IONA: No. No, you're the sick man.

ALAN: I'm not sick.

IONA: Well, you--

ALAN: (PAUSE) I don't know what happened to me, Iona.

IONA: Head feel all right?

ALAN: Of course. My legs are getting stiff. Want to walk a little ways? 
Somebody'll be along.

IONA: If you feel strong enough.

ALAN: Oh, I'm all right.

IONA: Help you up? (EXHALES WITH EFFORT) 

ALAN: (RISES, EXHALES WITH EFFORT) Thanks.

IONA: Which way?

ALAN: Well, we were going this way. As a matter of fact, I think Las Cruces 
Post Office is up the road a piece. Not far.

IONA: I've never been up here.

ALAN: I have. Should be somebody there, anyway. We can sit down, maybe use a 
phone.

IONA: Wait for me.

ALAN: Come on! (CONCERNED) Those are no shoes to go for a walk in, Iona.

IONA: (CHUCKLES, LIGHTLY) I didn't expect to take a walk, darling.

ALAN: And I'm so sorry.

IONA: Oh, forget it. Let's step out a little, I'm freezing.

ALAN: Come on.

IONA: (WORDLESSLY SINGS THE FIRST LINE OF "THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING")

ALAN: (SHARPLY) Don't sing that!

IONA: Wha--? Why? What's the matter?

ALAN: I don't like it!

IONA: (MILDLY OFFENDED BY HIS TONE) What? Sorry.

ALAN: Thanks. (GROANS)

IONA: I'm worried about you, Alan.

ALAN: I'm all right.

IONA: I know, but...

ALAN: (BEAT) What?

IONA: You're a nice guy.

ALAN: (TAKEN ABACK) You're a nice girl, Iona.

IONA: Thanks, Mac. (PAUSE) What about that dream?

ALAN: Dream?

IONA: Nightmare, hm?

ALAN: I - can't remember, Iona. 

IONA: Can't?

ALAN: No.

IONA: Won't!

ALAN: Now, look, little girl, I've been psyched by experts.

IONA: Not trying to psych you.

ALAN: Excuse me.

IONA: (WAVES IT OFF) Ah.

ALAN: Little sensitive, I guess.

IONA: Oh, stop it.

ALAN: Well-- Guy gets his head batted in, you know. All the docs. This guy 
okay for sound? You know.

IONA: You shouldn't have gone back to the studio so soon after getting out of 
the hospital.

ALAN: I know, but - but they need training films, and I'm the guy who knows 
how to be the big fat technical advisor. Only--

IONA: Only what?

ALAN: (SIGHS) I don't like to have people looking at me, wondering if I got 
all my buttons or not.

IONA: (LAUGHS) 

ALAN: Yeah, you can laugh.

IONA: Ah, you're all right, baby.

ALAN: All right? I go into a trance and drive off the road with my best girl 
alongside me.

IONA: What did you say?

ALAN: I said, I go into a trance and--

IONA: No. The last part of it.

ALAN: Huh? Well--

IONA: (QUIETLY PLEASED) About the "best girl," that part.

ALAN: Yeah, with-- Huh?

IONA: Could be you meant that, Alan?

ALAN: You don't think I'm off my rocker, a little? Huh?

IONA: I sure don't! What do you mean?

ALAN: Well... If you don't think so, then I meant it.

IONA: Alan?

ALAN: What?

IONA: Would you have a kiss for your "best girl"?

(MUSIC: ... FOR THE DREAM ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN (NARRATES): In the dream, the raw, red smell of fresh spilled blood, and 
the smell of smoke pouring from the burning houses. 

In the dream, the blackness of early dawn reddened with the flames from the 
burning houses. 

And in the dream, the cries of the dying, and the women and all the men and 
the children. 

In the dream, the voice of the old one, the long-dead old one, the chief, the 
MacDonald of Glencoe.

MACIAIN: In the winter -- and the snow deep on the moors -- along came frae 
Edinburgh was the word that all the clans must sign the pledge of loyalty to 
William before the winter was spent. And the word came to Glencoe after all 
the others, for they hated the MacDonalds. Aye, hoping the word would be too 
late, and we could not sign and the lowlanders would come and take us. I, mind 
ye -- I, MacIain MacDonald of Glencoe -- I braved all the winter snow, and I 
came to Fort William, and said I would sign the paper. And they sent me away 
to the Sheriff of Inveraray. And, again, through the snow I went, and I set my 
name to the paper, for the sake of all the MacDonalds of Glencoe that they 
might not forfeit their lives. Ah, and I was content, for they would live, and 
there would be peace among us all, highland and lowland alike. Aye, and the 
lums reeked in peace in the morning agin the high dred rock of the glen.

(MUSIC: GENTLY OUT)

ALAN: (NARRATES) The voice of the old man, the chief. The old fox in my dream. 
And in my dream...

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES ... A LAMENT ... IN BG)

ALAN: (NARRATES) ...the wailing of the pipes, the MacDonald pipes. The lament 
for Glencoe.

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES CONTINUE ... OUT BEHIND--)

SOUND: (LONG, LOUD CLAP OF THUNDER ... OR CANNON FIRE)

IONA: Was that thunder? Alan, was that--?

ALAN: I never heard thunder in Southern California before.

IONA: It's going to storm. It's so dark. Oh, come on, Alan, let's run. I don't 
want to get caught in it.

SOUND: (ROLL OF DISTANT THUNDER)

ALAN: (SHAKEN) It is thunder, Iona.

IONA: What's the matter with you? You've heard guns.

ALAN: I don't like it.

IONA: You scared? You scared, honey?

ALAN: Thunder and lightning always frightened me when I was a kid back East, I 
guess I never got over it.

IONA: (REASSURING) You take hold of your best girl's arm. She'll protect you.

ALAN: For that, I thank you.

IONA: I don't see any lightning, though.

ALAN: Never see lightning in California.

IONA: You California characters.

ALAN: (LIGHTLY) We're all right.

IONA: (WARMLY) You're all right.

SOUND: (ROLL OF THUNDER, A LITTLE CLOSER)

IONA: Listen to that.

ALAN: Wish we had some place to get inside.

IONA: We should have stayed in the car.

ALAN: It's too far to start back there. Anyway, it'd be just a little 
uncomfortable standing on a [name of automobile?] [in a ditch.?]

IONA: Poor car.

ALAN: Poor you.

IONA: We ought to be getting to that country post office you said; Las Cruces, 
wasn't it?

ALAN: It seems to be farther than I thought. 

IONA: Sure you know where you are?

ALAN: Been up here a million times.

SOUND: (ROLL OF THUNDER, CLOSE)

IONA: The road always as bad as this?

ALAN: It's not so bad when you're driving.

IONA: (CHUCKLES) Should have worn my moccasins.

ALAN: Why?

IONA: I keep falling into the ruts with these high heels. 

SOUND: (ROLL OF THUNDER ... ON TOP OF THEM NOW)

ALAN: Maybe there'll be somebody at Las Cruces, and we can get a cup of coffee 
or something.

IONA: Matter? You cold, too?

ALAN: That breeze is fresh.

IONA: Wait till the rain starts. Get good and cold, then.

ALAN: We'll stop under a tree and build a fire.

IONA: What tree?

ALAN: (BEAT) Why-- I see what you mean. (CHUCKLES) Trees everywhere, except 
where we are. When it rains.

IONA: (OUT OF BREATH) Oh. Whew! 

ALAN: What's the matter?

IONA: Well, I'm not used to walking.

ALAN: Want to rest?

IONA: No. We'd better get along. The rain'll hit any minute.

ALAN: It's dark. Say, maybe it's night coming on.

IONA: No. It - it was two o'clock just as we came up the hill at Goleta. Must 
be about four, now. (GASPS) Ouch!

ALAN: What?

IONA: I stepped into another one of those darned ruts.

ALAN: Ruts?

IONA: I told you, my high heels.

ALAN: I heard you the first time. I thought you were kidding.

IONA: Kidding?

ALAN: No ruts in a concrete road.

IONA: Concrete? Where's concrete?

ALAN: Why-- (BEAT, QUIETLY) Hey!

IONA: Don't you know where you are?

ALAN: Where'd we get off the main road?

IONA: Isn't this--?

ALAN: We must have got off it somewhere.

IONA: But this is a wagon road. A dirt road! 

SOUND: (THUNDER ... FOR PUNCTUATION)

ALAN: Well, how do you like that? You and me, we're lost.

IONA: (ALARMED) Oh, no, Alan!

ALAN: Baby, I've really fixed you up today, haven't I?

IONA: Wait.

ALAN: What?

IONA: Listen! (PAUSE) I thought--

ALAN: Wait.

IONA: (PAUSE) No.

ALAN: I guess not.

IONA AND ALAN: (OVERLAP) What did it sound like to you?

IONA: I thought it was the sound of pipes.

ALAN: (WITH A BROGUE) The sound of MacDonald coronach abune the braes.

IONA: Why, Alan. You sounded just like a real Scotsman when you said that.

(MUSIC: ... FOR THE DREAM ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN (NARRATES): The coronach of my dreams, the old sorrowful wail of the 
pipes in the dim darkness echoing through the grim gate to the vale of 
Glencoe, sorrowing for the MacDonalds who died. And the voice of the old 
leader, old MacIain, the old fox, as he told his dreadful tale in my dream.

(MUSIC: GENTLY OUT)

MACIAIN: And I had set my name to the paper, as I said to ye, young MacDonald. 
And our people had, I thought, the protection of the crown. And we were to be 
left to dwell in peace among the crags of darkling Glencoe. But there are, 
aye, many that hate the MacDonalds, and would see us all dead in our graves, 
and they are the aons that took council among their selves to plot our doom 
and destruction. For I, MacIain, the old fox, I had outfoxed the enemies of 
the MacDonalds by signing their oath. And I'll say to ye that I meant to keep 
it, though all the MacDonalds have been liegemen to James and his line. But 
now, William the Dutchman rules -- and Jamie's fled. Thus there was one 
Dalrymple in Edinburgh, and when he examined the paper, it seems that the name 
of MacIain MacDonald of Glencoe had been expunged frae the paper, so that we 
were still held traitors, though we knew it not. So, when the soldiers of the 
Duke of Argyle's regiment came to Glencoe, and Campbell of Glenlyon leading 
them, we welcomed them and took them into our hames and treated them as 
honored guests. 

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES FADE IN) 

MACIAIN: Aye, every man of them was a Campbell. And their pipes be forever 
roaring out the chant about the great Argyle. 

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES FILL A PAUSE ... THEN FADES FOR...)

MACIAIN: And when the MacDonald pipes skirled, och, it was only the old reels 
and the strathspeys. And the MacDonald pìobaireachd was never heard for the 
roaring of the Campbell war pipes in the glen. And the dismal black crags of 
the glen gave back their sound, the Baile Ionaraora and MacDonald aires... 

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES TOP HIM ... THEN FADE OUT BEHIND--)

(SOUND: LONG, LOUD CLAP OF THUNDER ... OR CANNON FIRE)

IONA: Alan?

ALAN: Stay close to me, darling.

IONA: Lightning!

ALAN: I saw it.

IONA: Did you see--? Great, high, dismal black rocks, I saw, Alan! Great, 
horrible, jagged crags and a stream splashing down among them. Oh, Alan!

ALAN: I saw it.

IONA: Alan, where are we?

ALAN: We're lost.

(MUSIC: ... DISTANT BAGPIPES ... CONTINUES IN BG)

IONA: Alan? Listen. (PAUSE) Oh, I do hear it! I do hear the pipes. Alan? (NO 
ANSWER) Alan?!

ALAN: (NARRATES) In the darkness. In the lightning-splashed darkness, and the 
rain and the mist, many things are revealed. The coronach of the MacDonalds. 
The sobbing, sorrowful music from the blackened crags. All is now clear to me. 
The dream returns to me. And it is morning of a February day two-and-a-half 
centuries ago in the vale of Glencoe. And I see the soldiers of the Campbells 
in the grey of the early dawn as they grope their several ways to the homes 
where they'd been honoured guests. And the glint of little lights on the naked 
claymore blades bodes ill for the MacDonalds.

(MUSIC: ... BAGPIPES FADES INTO MOURNFUL ORGAN ... THEN IN BG)

ALAN: (NARRATES) A child laughs, and calls to the companion of yesterday. The 
claymore slashes down at him and the massacre has begun. The Campbells are 
everywhere slashing, burning, shooting down the helpless ones who yesterday 
bade them welcome at their firesides. "Put all to the sword that none may 
escape," the secret order said to them, and the Campbells did well their work. 

And this is the dream I could not remember, save for the old man, the old fox, 
that fell, the last of them all, beside his hearth that morning in Glencoe. In 
my dream I heard his dying words: "Cursed be ye all!" And the claymore of the 
Campbell struck him fair between the eyes, an unarmed man. But still, in the 
dream, his voice went on.

MACIAIN: You are a MacDonald. Never forget it. Never forget that the 
MacDonalds of Glencoe shall be revenged against the Campbells. Never shall one 
of the name of Campbell enter the dark, the blood-haunted vale of Glencoe. 
Never, never, never! And when ye hear the coronach of the MacDonalds... 

(MUSIC: OUT ABRUPTLY WITH--)

(SOUND: LOUD THUNDERCLAP!)

MACIAIN: Remember!

(SOUND: REVERBERATION OF THUNDERCLAP FADES OUT BEHIND--)

IONA: (CRYING)

ALAN: Don't - don't cry, darling.

IONA: I'm afraid, Alan.

ALAN: We'll be all right.

(MUSIC: DISTANT BAGPIPES, IN BG)

IONA: Listen. Listen, the pipes again.

ALAN: No.

IONA: Don't you hear it?

ALAN: I - I hear it.

IONA: Alan, hold me.

ALAN: There's somebody coming.

IONA: (SCARED) No!

ALAN: Yes.

IONA: Who?

ALAN: See him? See him in the lightning flash?

IONA: Why, it-- It's a man with a bagpipe. What in--?!

ALAN: Wait, Iona. (CALLS) Hey!

(MUSIC: BAGPIPES OUT ABRUPTLY)

IONA: An old Scotsman that lives--?

ALAN: Come on. Let's go talk to him. Maybe he--

IONA: Wait for me!

ALAN: (CALLS) Hey, friend! (TO IONA) Watch your step, Iona.

IONA: He scares me. Ask him where we are and let's get out of here.

ALAN: Excuse me, sir. (CLOSER) Would you mind telling us where we are? I 
smashed my car and - and we-- I guess we got lost.

MACIAIN: You'd any ken where ye are, then, MacDonald?

ALAN: Why, how did you--? (REALIZES) I've heard that--

MACIAIN: Aye. Ye've heard my voice. I am MacIain MacDonald.

ALAN: (ASTONISHED) In my dream.

MACIAIN: Welcome, hame, MacDonald. Ye're in the vale of Glencoe.

ALAN: Glencoe?

MACIAIN: Welcome hame. You. And your lady.

IONA: Alan--?

ALAN: Wait, Iona.

MACIAIN: (SURPRISED, ANGRY) Iona?!

IONA: (BLANKLY) I am Iona Campbell.

(MUSIC: BIG ACCENT)

IONA: (SCREAMS)

(SOUND: THUNDERCLAP ... REVERBERATION FADES OUT)

ALAN: (NARRATES, SLOWLY) On a February morning, in Sixteen Ninety-Four, the 
Campbells marched away from Glencoe and Inverlochy, and not a MacDonald was 
left living. 

On a February day, two hundred and fifty years after, they found me sitting 
beside the body of Iona Campbell, under a sycamore tree, two miles from Las 
Cruces. 

There is no place, in all that mountain region, that remotely resembles the 
vale of Glencoe, where no Campbell may enter and live. 

Goodbye.

(MUSIC ... THEME ... FADE FOR)
ANNOUNCER: The title of the "Quiet, Please" story you have just heard is "The 
Vale of Glencoe," which was written and directed by Wyllis Cooper, and the man 
who spoke to you was Ernest Chappell.

CHAPPELL: And J. Pat O'Malley was MacIain MacDonald, Helen Choate played Iona. 
Music for "Quiet, Please," as usual, is by Albert Buhrmann. The pipe music was 
by pipe major James Petrie. Now, for a word about next week, our writer-
director, Wyllis Cooper.

COOPER: Thank you for listening to "Quiet, Please." For next week, I have a 
story for you about black, or at least dark grey, magic. It's called "As in a 
Glass, Darkly."

CHAPPELL: And so, until next week at this same time, I am quietly yours, 
Ernest Chappell.

(MUSIC ... THEME ... END)


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