style="font-size:15px;"> Of course the lost ones were not there, and the widow shook and trembled with fear when she heard the story.
She had only to say that the cleerach, who was a kind of forest ranger or keeper, had seen both the lost ones that afternoon gathering wild flowers.
“We’ll go to his house at once.”
It was only two miles farther on.
They bade the widow good-night, and started. She told them, last thing, that she would go to her bed and pray for them.
But they had not gone quite one mile and a half, when a brawny figure sprang from behind a tree, and a stentorian voice shouted:
“You thieving scoundrels, I have you now! Stop, and hold up your arms, or by the powers above us I’ll blow the legs of you off!”
The flash of John’s lantern revealed a stalwart keeper with double-barrelled gun presented full towards them.
“It’s me and my man John,” said the farmer, quietly. (The author is not to blame for the honest laird’s bad grammar.)
“Heaven have a care of me, sir,” cried the cleerach. “If I’d fired I’d ne’er have been forgiving mysel’. Sure it was after the poachers I was. But bless me, laird, what brings you into the forest at such an hour?”
The story was soon told, and together they marched to the cleerach’s cottage. A one-roomed wooden hut it was, built in a clearing, and almost like that of a backwoodsman. The only portion not wood was the hearth and the chimney.
All the information the cleerach could give them was hardly worth having, only he had seen Miss Campbell and young Harry, and they were then taking the path through the forest that led away to the river and past the field where the bull was.
“Then goodness help us,” exclaimed the farmer. “I fear something has happened to them.”
Nothing could be done till daylight. So the three sat by the fire, on which the cleerach heaped more logs; for, summer though it was, the night was chill, and a dew was falling. It was quite a keeper’s cottage, no pictures on the walls except a Christmas gift-plate or two from the London Illustrated Weeklies, and some Christmas cards. But stuffed heads and animals stood here and there in the corners, and skins of wild creatures were nailed up everywhere. Skins of whitterit or weasel, of foumart or pole-cat, of the wild cat itself, of great unsightly rats, of moles and of voles, and hawks and owls galore.
Scotchmen do not easily let down their hearts, so these men – and men they were in every sense of the word – sat there by the fire telling each other wild, weird forest tales and stories of folk-lore until at length the daylight streamed in at the window – cold and comfortless-looking – and almost put out the fire. “Will you have breakfast, laird, before you start?” The laird said, “Yes.”
The fire was replenished, and soon the keeper’s great kettle was boiling. Then in less than five minutes three huge dishes of oatmeal brose was made, and – that was the breakfast, with milk and butter.
Towsie Jock never moved from under the tree all the night long. Poor Miss Campbell was weary, tired, and cramped, but she dared not sleep. Once or twice she caught herself half-dreaming, and started up again in fright, and thanked Heaven she had not gone quite to sleep.
How long, long the stars seemed to shine, she thought! Would they never fade? Would morning never, never come?
But see, through the green leafy veil a glimmer of dawn at last, and she lifts up her thoughts in prayer to Him who has preserved them.
How soundly Harry sleeps in her arms! How beautiful the boy looks, too, in his sleep! The young image of his stalwart father.
The light in the east spreads up and up, and the stars pale before it, and disappear. Then the few clouds there are, begin to light up, and finally to glow in dazzling crimson and yellow.
She is wondering when assistance will come. But the sun shoots up, and help appears as far away as ever.
“Towsie, Towsie,” mutters the boy in his sleep, and smiles.
A whole hour passes, and hope itself begins to die in the poor girl’s breast, when oh! joy, from far away in the forest comes a shout.
“Coo-ee-ee!”
Then a shrill whistle. Then silence. She knows that assistance is not far off, if she can only make them hear. She knows that the silence which succeeds the shouting means that they are listening for a response.
She tries to answer, but no sound much louder than a whisper can she emit. The cold dews have rendered her almost voiceless.
Now she shakes and tries to arouse Harry.
“Harry, Harry, awake, dear!”
“Whe – where am I?” cries the boy, rubbing his eyes.
“In the forest, Harry; in a tree.”
“Oh, I remember now,” says Harry, smiling, and looking down; “and there’s Towsie. What a jolly sleep I’ve had, Guvie! Have you?”
Again came the shout, this time somewhat nearer.
“Answer, dear; answer, I’m so hoarse. Cry as loud as you can.”
Harry did as told. It would hardly be heard fifty yards away, however.
But it had one effect. It roused Towsie Jock. All his wrath seemed at once to return, and he prepared once more to attack the tree.
“Towsie Jock, Towsie, Towsie!” sang the boy.
For the life of him he could not help it.
“Wow-ow-ow-wo-ah!” roared the bull.
That was a sound that could be heard for one good mile at least.
The three men advancing to the rescue heard it.
For the first time since he had left home the farmer-laird felt real dread and fear. In his imagination he could see the mangled bodies of his son and the governess, with the bull standing guard over them.
“Come on, men. Great heavens! I fear the worst now.”
Milvaine had his strong, tall crook, John his terribly – punishing hide whip, the cleerach had a double-barrelled gun.
The bull – infuriated now beyond measure – came roaring to meet them.
The cleerach fired at his legs. The shot but made him stumble for a moment; it had no other effect. On he came wilder than ever. He seemed to single the farmer himself out, and charged him head down. Mr Milvaine met the charge manfully enough. He leapt nimbly to one side, striking straight home with the iron-shod end of the crook. It wounded the bull in the neck, but ill would it have fared with the farmer had he not got speedily behind a tree.
Whack, whack, whack. John is behind the bull with his whip of hide.
The bull wheels round upon him ere ever he can escape, and runs him between his horns against a tree.
John has seized the horns, and thus they stand man and brute locked in a death grip.
The
