“The doctor! some one go for a doctor.”
“There’s nae doctor this side o’ Stirling or Inverness,” said Long Shon quietly. “Puir laddie! Was this your doing, Scoody?”
“Na, father; she tried to stop her,” cried the boy piteously. “She wouldna stay. Is she trooned?”
“Trooned! nay, not she,” cried Tavish exultantly. “Look at her een. She chust gave ane wee bit blinkie. Bide a wee, laddie, and she’ll be upon her legs again.”
They watched and waited in a state of the greatest excitement, all but Scoodrach, who, after giving himself a shake like a water-dog, and wringing his kilt in front and behind, began to whistle in the most indifferent manner, and ended by walking coolly away, to the astonishment of all.
But they were too busy with Kenneth to pay any heed to the young gillie’s eccentricities, no one heeding his disappearance, as the half-drowned boy’s hands were chafed, and Tavish gently lowered his head till he could lay it on a tuft of heath.
There had been a quiver or two of the eyelids, as Tavish had said, and from time to time there was a faint fluttering of the pulses, but after these manifestations the poor fellow seemed to relapse, and Long Shon, who had been fidgeting and muttering against the forester’s treatment, impatiently dashed his bonnet on the ground.
“Ye’re a’ wrang, Tavvy!” he exclaimed,—“ye’re a’ wrang! Lat me tak’ haud o’ the laddie’s heels, and let her hing doon my back wi’ her heid close to the groon’.”
“Hwhat for?” cried Tavish.
“Hwhat for?” cried Long Shon contemptuously. “Canna ye see that the puir bairn’s fu’ o’ watter. Lat’s turn her up, man, an’ lat a’ t’ watter rin oot o’ her mooth. Here, stan’ aside.”