the awful charge of thatHighland bull.
Miss Campbell's head swam, but she clutched the rash boy to her breast,and thanked God he was saved.
Meanwhile the bull was at the foot of the tree. He first commenced anattack upon it with head and horns; every time, he battered it he shookit to its uttermost twig and leaf. But Miss Campbell and Harry had asafe seat in a strong niche between two great branches, with anotherbranch to sit on and one behind.
At every blow the bull reeled back again.
The governess was white and trembling.
Harry was as cool as a hero.
He looked down and enjoyed the performance.
"Isn't he naughty and wicked!" he said.
"Won't he have a headache in the morning, Guvie!"
While attacking and battering the tree, Towsie Jock was silent, only thenoise of the "thuds" resounded through the forest.
"If I had a big turnip now," said the boy, "to throw down, Towsie wouldeat it and go away, oh! _so_ well pleased, and not naughty at all."
Towsie soon saw that to knock down that sturdy old beech was impossible;he commenced, therefore, with angry bellowings to root round it with hisfeet.
But even of this he soon tired. He stood up, red-eyed andfurious-looking, and sniffed and snorted.
"May I cry `Towsie' again, Guvie?"
"Oh, no, no, no."
"He can't climb the tree, you know. He'll go away presently, then wecan get down and run, Guvie dear."
But Towsie had evidently no such intentions. He stood there for quitehalf an hour, then he began to chew his cud again. That was a pacificsign, and Miss Campbell gave a sigh of relief.
Towsie Jock was a good general. He had tried and tried in vain to stormthe citadel, that is, the tree; he had tried to batter it down, and hehad tried to undermine it; now the only thing to do was simply to laysiege to it.
And this he did by quietly lying down.
Meanwhile, far away in the east, they could see, through the greenery ofthe branches, red or crimson streaky clouds, and they knew that gloamingwas falling, and that gloaming would soon be followed by night.
The red clouds grew a lurid purple, then grey, then seemed to melt away,and only a gleam of light remained in the west. That also faded, andnext a bright, bright star peeped in through the leaves at them, and allgrew gloomy around.
Still the bull lay still.
Miss Campbell took a scarf from her neck and bound one of Harry's armstightly to a branch, lest he might sleep and slip from her grasp. ForHarry had grown very silent.
"Harry, dear," said Miss Campbell, "say your prayers."
"Guvie," replied the boy, "papa tells me I should bless my enemies; mustI pray for Towsie Jock?"
"If you like, dear."
Then Miss Campbell bethought her of a story, the funniest she couldremember, and began it.
Harry laughed for a time. But he soon grew suddenly silent.
He was fast asleep!
Meanwhile more and more stars came out, cushat's croodle and song ofbird gave place to the deep mournful notes of the brown owl, and thegloaming deepened into night.
Book 1--CHAPTER THREE.
THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST ONES--AN UGLY FIGHT.
Great was the anxiety at Beaufort Hall, as Harry's home was called, whenthe shadows fell and the stars peeped out from the sky's blue vault.Poor fragile Mrs Milvaine was almost distracted, but her husband tookmatters more easily, more philosophically let us call it.
"Don't fidget, my darling," he said, "they'll turn up all right in ashort time. Just you see now, and it won't do the triflingest morsel ofgood to worry yourself. No, nor it won't bring them a minute sooner."
"They may have fallen into the river," said Mrs Milvaine.
"Well, I don't deny that people have fallen into rivers before now, butthe probability is, they haven't," replied the farmer-laird. [A farmerwho owns the acres he tills.]
"They may have lost themselves in the forest, and may wander in it tillthey die."
"Nonsense, my love."
"Harry may have climbed a tree, fallen down and been killed, and MissCampbell may even now--"
"Stop, stop, dear! what an imagination you have, to be sure?"
"They may both be gored to death by that fearful bull, their mangledbodies may--"
Mr Milvaine put his fingers in his ears.
But when eleven o'clock rang out from the stable tower, and still thelost ones did not appear, then even the laird himself got fidgety. Hethrew down his newspaper.
But he did not permit his wife to notice his uneasiness. He quietly lithis pipe.
"I'll go and look for them," he said, and left the room. He returnedpresently wrapped in a Highland plaid, with a shepherd's crook in hishand, much taller than himself, and that is saying a good deal, for thisScottish laird stood six feet two in his boots, and was well made inproportion.
He bent down and kissed his wife.
"Don't fret, I'll soon find them," he said. "They have gone botanising,I suppose, and have lost themselves, and are doubtless in WidowMcGregor's cottage, or in the cleerach's hut."
Out he went. Rob Roy McGregor himself never had a more manly stride.
He went to the stable gallery first, or rather to the foot of the stair.
"John!" he cried,--"John! John!"
"Yes, yes, sir," was the reply, and a stream of light shot out into thedarkness as John threw open the door.
"Miss Campbell and Master Harry are lost somewhere in the forest. Bringa bull's-eye lantern, and let us look for them. Bring therhinoceros-hide whip, too; we may come across some poachers."
In five minutes more master and man had started.
John was nearly as tall as his master. This was partly the reason whythe laird had engaged him. Coachmen do not often have great brownbeards and moustaches, but John had; coachmen do not often wear theHighland dress, but John did, and a fine-looking fellow he was when soarrayed. But every horse and every cart about this farmer-laird's placewas big. The dog-cart had been specially built for him, and there wasnot another such in the country.
Away they went then.
It was half-past eleven when they started, and twelve by watch when theyfound themselves in the forest.
"It is always hereabout they do be," said John. "Just hereabouts, sir."
Then they shouted, singly.
Then they shouted again--together this time; shouted and listened, butthere was no answering call.
There was a rushing sound among the tall spruces, and aflap-flap-flapping of wings, as startled wild pigeons fled from theirnests away out into the dreary depths of the forest.
There was the too-whit, to-who-oo-oo of an owl in the distance, but noother sound responded to their shouting.
"We'll go straight on to the widow's," said the laird.
"Right, laird."
So on they went again, often pausing to wave the bull's-eye, to shout,and to listen.
All in vain.
When they reached Widow McGregor's cottage all was darkness and silencewithin.
They knocked nevertheless, knocked again and again, and at last had thesatisfaction of hearing a match lighted, then a light shone through thedoor seams, and a voice--a somewhat timorous and quavering one--demanded:
"Wha's there at this untimeous hoor o' nicht?"
"It's me, Mrs McGregor; me, Laird Milvaine. Don't be alarmed."
The bolt flew back, and master and man entered.
Of course the lost ones were not there, and the widow shook and trembledwith fear when she heard the story.
She had only to say that the cleerach, who was a kind of forest rangeror keeper, had seen both the lost ones that afternoon gathering wildflowers.
"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, wh
en a brawny figuresprang 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 withdouble-barrelled gun presented full towards them.
"It's me and my man John," said the farmer, quietly. [The author is notto blame for the honest laird's bad grammar.]
"Heaven have a care of me, sir," cried the cleerach. "If I'd fired I'dne'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'scottage. A one-roomed wooden hut it was, built in a
Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy Page 4