For over a week—for well-nigh a fortnight, indeed—they fished by the river, and caught many a trout, as well as lordly salmon, without seeing anyone belonging to Bilberry Hall, except Shufflin’ Sandie, for whom the grand old river had irresistible attractions.
Sandie smelt a rat, though, and imagined he knew well enough why Craig Nicol did not bring his friend to the Hall. Before falling asleep one night, Craig had an inspiration, and he slept more soundly after it.
He would take his friend on a grand Highland tour, which should occupy all his vacation.
Yes. But man can only propose. God has the disposal of our actions. And something happened next that Craig could not have calculated on.
They had been to the hill, which was still red and crimson with the bonnie blooming heather, and were coming down through the forest, not far from Bilberry Hall, when suddenly they heard a shot fired, then the sounds of a fearful struggle.
Both young men grasped their sturdy cudgels and rushed on. They found two of McLeod’s gamekeepers engaged in a terrible encounter with four sturdy poachers. But when Craig and his friend came down they were man to man, and the poachers fled.
Not, however, before poor Reginald was stabbed in the right chest with a skean dhu, the little dagger that kilted Highlanders wear in their right stocking.
The young doctor had fallen. The keepers thought he was dead, the blood was so abundant.
But he had merely fainted. They bound his wound with scarves, made a litter of spruce branches, and bore him away to the nearest house, and that was the Hall. Craig entered first, lest Annie should be frightened, and while Shufflin’ Sandie rode post-haste for the doctor poor Reginald was put to bed downstairs in a beautiful room that overlooked both forest and river.