He slowly withdrew his head.

“That is most extraordinary,” he called to his companion, who was standing a few yards farther back.  “Miss Honnor, won’t you put a fly over them?”

“What is the use,” said she.  “They will look at it, but they won’t take it; and I don’t think it is well they should know too much about the patterns that Mr. Watson dresses.  They know quite enough already.  Some of the old hands, I do believe, are familiar with every fly made in Inverness.”

“Won’t you try?” he pleaded.

“Well, if you would like to see them look at a fly, I’ll put it over them,” she said, good-naturedly, “but, you know, it is most demoralizing.”

So she, also, had to creep out to the edge of the rock; and then she cautiously put out the rod and the short line she had previously prepared.  She threw the fly to the opposite side of the pool, let it sink an inch or two, and then quietly jerked it across until it came in the way of the slow-circling salmon.  To her it was merely an amusement, but to Lionel it was a breathless excitement, to watch one after another of those big fish, in passing, come up to look at this beautiful, gleaming, shrimp-like object and then sink down again and go on its round.  They would not come within two feet of this tempting lure.  She tried them in all parts of the pool, sinking the fly well into the plunging fall, and letting it be carried right to the other side before she dragged it across the clear open.

“Won’t one of you take it?” she said.  “It’s as pretty a fly as ever was dressed, though they do call it the Dirty Yellow.”

But all of a sudden the circumstances were changed in a most startling manner.  A swift, half-seen creature came darting up from out of the plunging torrent, shot into the clear water, snatched at the small object that was floating there, and down went fly and rod until the top was almost touching the surface.  The reel had caught in her dress, somehow.  But in another second all that was altered—­she had got the reel free—­she was up on her feet—­the line was singing out—­the rod raised, with the pliant top yielding to every movement of the fish—­and Lionel, quite bewildered by the rapidity of the whole occurrence, wondering what he could do to assist her.  Miss Honnor, however, was quite competent to look after herself.

“Who could have expected that?” she said, as the salmon went away down into the deep pool, and deliberately sulked there.  “I wasn’t fishing, I was only playing; and he very nearly broke me at the first plunge.  Really, it all happened so quickly that I could not see what size he was; could you, Mr. Moore?”

“Not I!” he answered.  “The creature came out of the rough water like a flash of lightning—­I only saw the splash his tail made as he went down again.  But what are you going to do, Miss Honnor?  Shall I run down the strath and tell old Robert to hurry back?”

“Not at all!—­we’ll manage him by ourselves,” she replied, confidently.  “Here, you take him, and I’ll gaff him for you.”