The last few days seemed to have quite restored Kenneth, who, once able to be out on the mountains, recovered strength at a wonderful rate.
Those were delightful days to Max. His old nervousness was rapidly leaving him, and he was never happier than when out with the two lads fishing, shooting, boating, or watching Kenneth as he stood spear-armed in the bows, trying to transfix some shadowy skate as it glided as if flying over the sandy bottom of the sea-loch.
One grandly exciting day to Max was on the occasion of a deer-stalking expedition, which resulted, through the clever generalship of Tavish, in both lads getting a good shot at a stag.
Max was first, and, after a long, wearisome climb, he lay among some rocks for quite a couple of hours, with Tavish, watching a herd of deer, before the time came when, under the forester’s guidance, the deadly rifle, which Max had found terribly heavy, was rested upon a stone, and Tavish whispered to him,—
“Keep ta piece steady on ta stane, laddie, and when ta stag comes well oot into ta glen, ye’ll chust tak’ a glint along ta bar’l and aim richt at ta showlder, and doon she goes.”
Max’s hands trembled, his heart beat fast, and the perspiration stood on his brow, as he waited till, from out of a narrow pass which they had been watching, a noble-looking stag trotted slowly into the glen, and, broadside on, turned its head in their direction.
Max saw the great eyes, the branching antlers, and, in his excitement, the forest monarch seemed to be of huge proportions.
“Noo!” was whispered close to his ear; and, “glinting” along the barrel, after fixing the sight right upon the animal’s flank, Max drew the trigger, felt as if some one had struck him a violent blow in the shoulder, and then lay there on his chest, gazing at a cloud of smoke and listening to the rolling echoes as they died away.
“Aweel, aweel!” said a voice close by him, in saddened tones. “Ye’re verra young, laddie. Ye’ll hae to try again.”
“Isn’t it dead?” said Max.