of muscle, well-matched in height and years, and they wrestled with vigour and skill. The farmer was weary at the start, but his weariness was less fatigue than drowsiness, and as he warmed to his work he felt his strength returning. The Earl knew nothing of the game; he had not wrestled in his youth with strong out-of-door labourers, and his only resources were a vigorous frame and uncommon agility. But as the minutes passed and both breathed hard, the younger man began to feel that he was losing ground. He could scarce stand out against the strain on his arms, and his ankles ached with the weight which pressed on them.
Now it fell out that just as the tailor arrived on the scene the farmer made a mighty effort and all but swung his opponent from his feet. In the wrench which followed, the buttons of the Earl’s light overcoat gave way, and to the farmer’s astonished gaze an expanse of white shirtfront was displayed. For a second he relaxed his hold, while the other freed himself and leaped back to recover breath.
Slowly it dawned upon the farmer’s intelligence that this was no cattle-dealer with whom he contended. Cattle-dealers do not habitually wear evening clothes when they have any work of guile on hand. And then gradually the flushed features before him awoke recognition. The next moment he could have sunk beneath the ground with confusion, for in this nightly marauder who had turned his sheep he saw no other than the figure of his master, the laird of all the countryside.
For a little the power of speech was denied him, and he stared blankly and shamefacedly while the Earl recovered his scattered wits. Then he murmured hoarsely—
“I hope your lordship will forgi’e me. I never thocht it was yoursel’, for I wad dae onything rather than lift up my hand against ye. I thocht it was an ill-daein’ dealer frae east the country, whae has cheated me often, and I was vexed at his turnin’ the sheep, seein’ that I’ve had a lang day’s wander.” Then he stopped, for he was a man of few words and he could go no further in apology.
Then the Earl, who had entered into the fight in a haphazard spirit, without troubling to enquire its cause, put the fitting end to the strained relations. He was convulsed with laughter, deep and overpowering. Little by little the farmer’s grieved face relaxed, and he joined in the mirth, till these two made the silent place echo with unwonted sounds.
To them thus engaged entered a company of four, Miss Phyllis, the Sentimentalist, the shepherd, and the tailor. Six astonished human beings stood exchanging scrutinies under the soft moon. With the tailor the mood was still terror, with the shepherd careless amazement, and with the other two unquenchable mirth. For the one recognised the irate, and now apologetic, farmer of the Lowe Moss and the straggling sheep which told a tale to the observant; while both saw in the other of the dishevelled and ruddy combatants the once respectable form of a friend.
Then spoke the farmer:—
“What’s ta’en a’ the folk? This knowe’s like a kirk skailin’. And, dod, there’s Jock Rorison. Is this your best road to the Redswirehead, Jock?”
But the shepherd and his friend were speechless for they had recognised the laird, and the whole matter was beyond their understanding.
“Now,” said Miss Phyllis, “here’s a merry meeting. I have seen more wonders tonight than I can quite comprehend. First, there comes Mr. Grey from nowhere in particular with a plaid on his shoulders; then a man with a scared face tumbles at our feet; then another comes to look for him; and now here you are, and you seem to have been righting. These hills of yours are worse than any fairyland, and, do you know, they are rather exhausting.”
Meantime the Earl was solemnly mopping his brow and smiling on the assembly. “By George,” he muttered, and then his breath failed him and he could only chuckle. He looked at the tailor, and the sight of that care-ridden face again choked him with laughter.
“I think we have all come across too many spirits tonight,” he said, “and they have been of rather substantial flesh and bone. At least so I found it. Have you learned much about the future, Miss Phyllis?”
The girl looked shyly at her side. “Mr. Grey has been trying to teach me,” said she.
The Earl laughed with great good-nature. “Midsummer madness,” he said. “The moon has touched us all.” And he glanced respectfully upward, where the White Huntress urged her course over the steeps of heaven.
No-Man’s-Land
I
The Shieling of Farawa
It was with a light heart and a pleasing consciousness of holiday that I set out from the inn at Allermuir to tramp my fifteen miles into the unknown. I walked slowly, for I carried my equipment on my back—my basket, fly-books and rods, my plaid of Grant tartan (for I boast myself a distant kinsman of that house), and my great staff, which had tried ere then the front of the steeper Alps. A small valise with books and some changes of linen clothing had been sent on ahead in the shepherd’s own hands. It was yet early April, and before me lay four weeks of freedom—twenty-eight blessed days in which to take fish and smoke the pipe of idleness. The Lent term had pulled me down, a week of modest enjoyment thereafter in town had finished the work; and I drank in the sharp moorish air like a thirsty man who has been forwandered among deserts.
I am a man of varied tastes and a score of interests. As an undergraduate I had been filled with the old mania for the complete life. I distinguished myself in the Schools, rowed in my college eight, and reached the distinction of practising for three weeks in the Trials. I had dabbled in a
