“A bonnie rifle she is,” said he, as if interpreting the admiring look Daly bestowed upon a richly ornamented gun. “Do you mind the day yer honor shot the corbie at the Tegern See?”
“Where the Tyrol fellows set on us, on the road to Innspruck, and I brought down the bird to show them that they had to deal with a marksman as good at least as themselves.”
“Just sae; it was a bra' shot; your hand was as firm, and your eye as steady then as any man's.”
“I could do the feat this minute,” said Daly, angrily, as turning away he detached a heavy broadsword from the wall.
“She was aye over weighty in the hilt,” said Sandy, with a dry malice.
“You used to draw that bowstring to your ear,” said Daly, sternly, as he pointed to a Swiss bow of portentous size.
“I had twa hands in those days,” said the other, calmly, and without the slightest change of either voice or manner.
Not so with him to whom they were addressed. A flood of feelings seemed to pour across his memory, and, laying his hand on Sandy's shoulder, he said, in an accent of very unusual emotion, “You are right, Sandy, I must be changed from what I used to be.”
“Let us awa to the auld life we led in those days,” said the other, impetuously, “and we 'll soon be ourselves again! Does n't that remind yer honor of the dark night on the Ottawa, when you sent the canoe, with the pine-torch burning in her bow, down the stream, and drew all the fire of the Indian fellows on her?”
“It was a grand sight,” cried Daly, rapturously, “to see the dark river glittering with its torchlight, and the chiefs, as they stood rifle in hand, peering into the dense pine copse, and making the echoes ring with their war-cries.”