able to steady the rifle-barrel until it ceased to be tremulous; he asked himself whether he had not in reality pulled the trigger just before the stag swerved its head aside.  And what would have been his feelings now, supposing he had missed?  Riding home in silence and dejection—­trying to account for the incomprehensible blunder—­fearing to think of what he would have to say to the people at the lodge.  And he was not at all sorry to reflect that, as soon as the little party got back home, Miss Honnor Cunyngham should see for herself that he, a mere singer out of comedy-opera, was not afraid to face the hardships that had proved too much for Lord Rockminster—­yes, and that he had faced them to some purpose.

Very friendly sounded the voice of the Geinig, when it first struck upon his ear; they were getting into a recognizable neighborhood now; here were familiar features—­not a waste of the awful and unknown.  But it was too much to expect that Miss Cunyngham should still be lingering by any of those pools; the evening was closing in; she must have set out for home long ago, fishing her way down as she went.  They passed a shepherd’s solitary cottage; the old man came out to hear the news—­which was told him in Gaelic.  They reached the banks of the Aivron, and trudged along under the tall cliffs and through the scattered birch and hazel.  Then came the fording of the river—­the tramp along the other side—­the return ford—­and the small home-going party was reunited again.  They skirted the glassy sweeps of the Long Pool, the darker swirls of the Small Pool, and the saffron-tinted masses of foam hurling down between the borders of the Rock Pool; and then at last they came in view of the spacious valley, and far away in the midst of it Strathaivron Lodge.

Had they been coming back with bad news this might have been rather a melancholy sight, perhaps—­the long, wide strath with the wan shades of twilight stealing over the meadows and the woods and the winding river; but now (to Lionel at least) it was nothing but beautiful.  If the glen itself looked ghostly and lifeless and colorless, there were warmer hues overhead; for a pale salmon-flush still suffused the sky; and where that half-crimson glow, just over the dark, heather-stained hill, faded into an exquisite transparent lilac, there hung a full moon—­a moon of the lightest and clearest gold, with its mysterious continents appearing as faint gray films.  The prevailing peace seemed to grow more profound with the coming of the night.  But this was not a night to be feared—­this was a night to be welcomed—­a night with that fair golden moon hanging high in the heavens, the mistress and guardian of the silent vale.

When Lionel rode up to the door of the lodge, he found all the gentlemen of the house congregated there and dressed for dinner.  Sir Hugh held up his hand.

“No, not one word!” he cried.  “Not necessary.  I can always tell.  It is written in every line of your face.”