It was evident that Mr. Fullarton had something on his mind that he intended to impart to his companion; but it was equally clear that he did not see his way to the confidence. The path turned abruptly across the line of hills; and while he was hesitating and looking about for a fair opening, it got so steep and rugged that it soon left him no breath for the disclosure. Before they had gone half a league the divine was decidedly in difficulties; he rolled hither and thither, panting painfully, like one who has already endured all the burden and heat of the day. Still he clung obstinately to Cecil’s bridle-rein, rather assisted than assisting, till they reached a point where the road resembled greatly a flight of garret stairs, without any regularity in the steps thereof. The mule and its leader stumbled together; the former recovered itself cleverly after the fashion of its kind; but such a tour de force far exceeded the exhausted energies of the pursy pastor. He was fairly “down upon his head.”
Since the cavalcade started, Major Keene had not attempted to disturb the order of march; at first he walked by the side of Fanny Molyneux, and did his best to amuse her; when the path became too narrow for three abreast, he resigned the charge to Harry (who never, willingly, when en voyage, abdicated the charge of his mignonne), and went on by himself, just in the rear of Miss Tresilyan and her clerical escort. He presented, in truth, a striking contrast to that over-tasked pedestrian—going easily, within himself, without a quickened breath, or a bead of moisture on his forehead. Shikari of the Upper Himalayas, gillies of Perthshire and the Western Highlands, chamois-hunters of the Tyrol, and guides of Chamounix or Courmayeur, could all have told tales of that long, slashing stride, to which hill or dale, rough or smooth, never came amiss; before which even the weary German miles were swallowed up like furlongs. He sprang quickly forward when he saw the mishap of his front rank; Miss Tresilyan was quite safe, so he only gave her a smile in passing, and then raised the fallen ecclesiastic, with a studied and ostentatious tenderness that would have aggravated a saint.
“I hope you are not severely hurt, Mr. Fullarton? You really should be less rash in over-exciting yourself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is—somewhat ‘short of work.’ May I relieve you of your responsibility till you have recovered your wind?”
In spite of his own sacred character, and the proprieties of time and place, had Keene been weak and of small stature, it is within the bounds of possibility that the pastor might have assaulted him, there and then.
If it had not been for that unfortunate sense of the ridiculous which was perpetually offering temptations to Miss Tresilyan, she would have undoubtedly on this occasion espoused the losing side; but she exhausted all her powers of self-control in expressing (with decent gravity) her sorrow, that her guide should have come to grief in her service. She had none left wherewith to concoct a rebuke for the Cool Captain. Considering the circumstances, Mr. Fullarton’s laugh, and attempt at a jest on his own discomfiture, did him infinite credit. With the smothered expression that half escaped his lips as he fell to the rear, the chronicler has no earthly concern.
As the other two moved onward, Royston spoke, his dark eyes glittering scornfully—
“I wonder if women will ever get tired of deriding us, or we of ministering to their amusement? It must have been a great satisfaction to Anne of Austria to see Richelieu dance that saraband. (But Mazarin paid her off for it. I am very glad that the cardinal was avenged by the charlatan.) Now, how could you allow the shepherd to be so rash? Consider that he has a large and increasing family totally dependent on him for support. If I were Mrs. Fullarton, I would bring an action against you. It is a necessity that his successor should quote something; and he really did bring to my mind the description of the White Bull of Duncraggan, who started up-hill so vigorously—
But steep and flinty was the road,
And sharp the hurrying pikemen’s goad,
And when we came to Dennan’s Row,