“Only ten minutes more,” observed Bunker in his most cheering manner.

The Baron made no reply.

They were now running along the brink of a glimmering loch, the piled mountains on the farther shore perfectly mirrored; a tern or two lazily fishing; a delicate summer sky smiling above.  All at once Count Bunker started—­

“That must be Hechnahoul!” said he.

The Baron looked and beheld, upon an eminence across the loch, the towers and turrets of an imposing mansion overtopping a green grove.

“And here is the station,” added the Count.

The Baron’s face assumed a piteous expression.

“Bonker,” he stammered, “I—­I am afraid!  You be ze Tollyvoddle—­I cannot do him!”

“My dear Baron!”

“Oh, I cannot!”

“Be brave—­for the honor of the fatherland.  Play the bold Blitzenberg!”

“Ach, ja; but not bold Tollyvoddle.  Zat picture—­ you vere right—­it vas omen!”

Never did the genius of Bunker rise more audaciously to an occasion.

“My dear Baron,” said he, assuming on the instant a confidence-inspiring smile, “that print was a hoax; it wasn’t old Tulliwuddle at all.  I faked it myself.”

“So?” gasped the Baron.  “You assure me truly?”

Muttering (the historian sincerely hopes) a petition for forgiveness, Bunker firmly answered—­

“I do assure you!”

The train had stopped, and as they were the only first-class passengers on board, a peculiarly magnificent footman already had his hand upon the door.  Before turning the handle, he touched his hat.

“Lord Tulliwuddle?” he respectfully inquired.

“Ja—­zat is, yes, I am,” replied the Baron.

CHAPTER VIII

From the platform down to the pier was only some fifty yards, and before them the travellers perceived an exceedingly smart steam-launch, and a stout middle-aged gentleman, in a blue serge suit and yachting cap, advancing from it to greet them.  They had only time to observe that he had a sanguine complexion, iron-gray whiskers, and a wide-open eye, before he raised the cap and, in a decidedly North British accent, thus addressed them—­

“My lord—­ahem!—­your lordship, I should say—­ I presume I’ve the pleasure of seeing Lord Tulliwuddle?”

The Count gently pushed his more distinguished friend in front.  With an embarrassment equal to their host’s, his lordship bowed and gave his hand.

“I am ze Tollyvoddle—­vary pleased—­Mistair Gosh, I soppose?”

“Gallosh, my lord.  Very honored to welcome you.”

In the round eyes of Mr. Gallosh, Count Bunker perceived an unmistakable stare of astonishment at the sound of his lordship’s accented voice.  The Baron, on his part, was evidently still suffering from his attack of stage fright; but again the Count’s gifts smoothed the creases from the situation.