Chapter Twenty Six.
“Suit of Andrew Blande.”
A shriek of hearty laughter rose as poor Tonal’s naïve question was heard, and the old man tucked his pipes under his arm, and then took hold of the sheath and raised his claymore to return it to its peaceful state; but, as he raised the glistening basket-hilt to the full length of his stretch, it fell from his grasp with a clang upon the stones; the old man’s eyes closed, and he would have fallen, had not Max thrown his arm about his waist.
“Oh, Donald, old man!” cried Kenneth piteously; “I wouldn’t have laughed if I had known.”
“Whisht, laddie!” said Tavish. “Lat me tak’ him;” and, raising the old man in his arms, he bore him through the gates and into the servants’ quarters. Here he was laid upon a bed, and the whisky Grant had brought applied to his lips.
“Oh, if we only had Mr Curzon here!” whispered Max.
“Nay, laddie, we dinna want him,” said Tavish. “There’s naething proken but ta pipes—nae banes. He’s a bit shakkit i’ ta pack. It’s a coot way doon.”
Just then the old man revived and looked round wonderingly, and his eyes flashed directly, as there was a loud barking again from the dogs.