His consternation returned with the advance of the two ancient clansmen who, after a guttural panegyric in Gaelic, offered him further symbols—­a claymore and target, very formidable to behold.  All these gifts having been adroitly transferred to the arms of the footmen by the ubiquitous Count, the Baron’s emotions swiftly passed through another phase when the eldest Miss Gallosh, aged twenty, with burning eyes and the most distracting tresses, dropped him a sweeping courtesy and offered a final contribution—­a fiery cross, carved and painted by her own fair hands.

A fresh round of applause followed this, and then a sudden silence fell upon the assembly.  All eyes were turned upon the chieftain:  not even a dog barked:  it was the moment of a lifetime.

“Can you manage a speech, old man?” whispered Bunker.

“Ach, no, no, no!  Let me escape.  Oh, let me fly!”

“Bury your face in your hands and lean on my shoulder,” prompted the Count.

This stage direction being obeyed, the most effective tableau conceivable was presented, and the climax was reached when the Count, after a brief dumb-show intended to indicate how vain were Lord Tulliwuddle’s efforts to master his emotion, spoke these words in the most thrilling accents he could muster

“Fair ladies and brave men of Hechnahoul!  Your chief, your friend, your father requests me to express to you the sentiments which his over-wrought emotions prevent him from uttering himself.  On his behalf I tender to his kind and courteous friends, Mr., Mrs., and the fair maids Gallosh, the thanks of a long-absent exile returned to his native land for the welcome they have given him!  To his devoted clan he not only gives his thanks, but his promise that all rents shall be reduced by one half—­so long as he dwells among them!” (Tumultuous applause, disturbed only by a violent ejaculation from a large man in knickerbockers whom Bunker justly judged to be the factor.)

“With his last breath he shall perpetually thunder:  Ahasheen—­comara—­mohr!”

The Tulliwuddle slogan, pronounced with the most conscientious accuracy of which a Sassenach was capable, proved as effective a curtain as he had anticipated; and amid a perfect babel of cheering and bagpiping the chieftain was led to his host’s carriage.

CHAPTER IX

“Well, the worst of it is over,” said Bunker cheerfully.

The Baron groaned.  “Ze vorst is
only jost beginning to gommence.”

They were sitting over a crackling fire of logs in the sitting-room of the suite which their host had reserved for his honored visitors.  How many heirlooms and dusky portraits the romantic thoughtfulness of the ladies had managed to crowd into this apartment for the occasion were hard to compute; enough, certainly, one would think, to inspire the most sluggish-blooded Tulliwuddle with a martial exultation.  Instead, the chieftain groaned again.