"I can try, Sir Charles." George in no wise disconcerted.
"Why, man" — begins his master, and bursts out a-laughing.
Then the whole of the boys set up a roar.
George reddens, half-inclined to cry.
"Never mind, then; come along!" cries the old gentleman, recovering; "and if you do walk, those legs of yours belie you. Now then, M'Killop. At the old place. Lead off!"
Off they march, scramble, run, and scuffle.
The gravel and the velvet turf in front is sadly cut up and trampled upon, but the laird's eye is bright and joyous. Lady Graeme, with Miss Williams — the poor, dull, uninteresting Miss Williams — with whom fate obliges her to pass this day in company, is standing at the window, and they salute her gaily as they pass.
What a morning it is
Brightly sparkles the frost upon the fir-trees, as it drips beneath the influence of the noonday sun. The sea is at its lowest, calm as glass, blue as the heavens above it, here and there twinkling in diamond points of light, anon covered from shore to shore with those long streaks that tell where the herring lie beneath.
All along the wet sands the gulls, curlews, and herons are feeding. A flock of ducks is sailing in and out among the rocks and headlands of the bay.
One solitary bird, large and white, hovers overhead in the blue picture-frame. Patiently it waits awhile, circles round, regains the former point, then flashes from its height, with a sharp report strikes the water — and the solan goose has seized its prey.
"Look, Captain Blount; you won't see a sight like that south of the Tweed! That fellow is come all the way from Ailsa to fish these waters. See, see, up he goes! cries the old sportsman, standing stock-still. "Up, up, up! now he has found his place again, and a bonnie fish in his maw, I'll warrant him! Did you hear the noise he made? Did you hear that clap?"
"Was that report from the bird?" cries Blount. "I thought it was a shot from the opposite shore."
"Ay, it was the bird. They seldom come as far as this till about this season of the year. Then you may see one by himself pretty frequently, sometimes two, not often more at a time."
They are walking on again, up through the narrow wood-paths, Sir Charles pointing hither and thither as he pours out tales of exploits past; and faster and faster he and Blount hurry along, till Bee and her brothers are left far behind.
When they reach the trysting-place every one is waiting. Confusion, talking, loitering ensues, but at last the main body start; a few efficient hands being told off to the passes.
Arthur and his sister depart for their station, and Captain Blount is marched off to his, under escort.
Arthur's pass is not far from the cottage, and is soon reached. He smokes, she walks up and down, and an hour goes by.
Occasionally wild whoops break out at different points, and the prolonged cry of the beaters is heard, now far in the distance, now startlingly close at hand, but nothing presents itself.
Bee feels it slightly monotonous, but does not like to say so, and another hour is gone.
"Two o'clock," says Arthur. "What in the world —"
Bang! a single report.
"That was Blount! That shot did execution! They will be here next!" cries Arthur, all excitement. "Keep quiet, Bee, and don't you stir. Come in behind this tree. Ah, that little wretch, Charlie what is he setting up his pipe for? Be quiet, you impertinent little ape!" snarls his brother, between his teeth.
Charlie continues to yell, yell, yell; Arthur is getting furious; suddenly comes a soft rustling, a gentle pit-pat on the mossy path: he puts out his hand and touches Beatrix. She has seen it already, the timid creature, all confused, trembling, and suspicious, creeping along the quiet opening which may prove a shelter from agony and death.
Ha! what is that? Something unusual, something dangerous? A piece of red among the green, a sparkle among the brackens.
Dare she venture on? One slender limb is extended, the graceful head is thrown upwards, the scared eyeballs search the prospect.
The ambuscade cowers motionless, Arthur's finger on the trigger; there comes a shout from above, and the doe bounds forward to her fate.
That shot needed not much of the sportsman's skill. Within ten yards of Beatrix she lies mortally wounded, the poor palpitating sides heave more and more faintly, the mouth opens and shuts in spasms of agony.
Bee cannot look, nor speak, nor move.
