And, although the general mournfully shook his head, distrustfully and despondingly; though he only uttered, "Poor children—dear children—would to Heaven that it could be so;"—and he, for one, was evidently innoculated, as before, with all the old thoughts of gloom, sadness, and anxiety;—still Emily hoped-for Charles hoped—and Jeanie Mackie was so certain.
CHAPTER XXVI.
JULIAN.
Next day, a fine summer afternoon, when our feeble convalescents had gone out together, they found the fresh air so invigorating, and themselves so much stronger, that they prolonged their walk half-way to Oxton. The pasture-meadows, rich and rank, were alive with flocks and herds; the blue sea lazily beat time, as, ticking out the seconds, it melodiously broke upon the sleeping shore; the darkly-flowing Mullet swept sounding to the sea between its tortuous banks; and upon that old high foot-path skirting the stream, now shady with hazels, and now flowery with meadow-sweet, crept our chastened pair.
Just as they were nearing a short angle in the river, the spot where Charles had been preserved, they noticed for the first time a rough-looking fisherman, who, unseen, had tracked their steps some hundred yards; he had a tarpaulin over his shoulder, very unnecessarily, as it would seem, on so fine and warm a day; and a slouching sou'-wester, worn askew, flapped across the strange man's face.
He came on quickly, though cautiously, looking right and left; and Emily trembled on her guardian's feeble arm. Yes—she is right; the fisherman approaches—she detects him through it all: and now he scorns disguise; flinging off his cap and the tarpaulin, stands before them—Julian!
"So, sir—you tremble now, do you, gallant general: give me the girl." And he levelled at his father one of those double-barrelled pistols, full-cock.
"Julian, my son, I forgive you, Julian; take my hand, boy."
"What—coward? now you can cringe, and fawn, eh? back with you!—the girl, I say." For poor Emily, wild with fear, was clinging to that weak old man.