Close by the trysting place, in the slanting June sunlight, screening himself with the thick foliage of a “bourtree-bush,” stood tall Angus Macalpine watching for his prey. Flora, nervous and trembling, stood beside him; she felt she was very much out of place, and did not at all like her position, but that strong, thickset little brother of hers, Duncan Roy, was squatting at her feet, concealing the flaming red head, which might have alarmed their victim, among the surrounding leaves, and Angus, bending down his handsome head with its curling fair hair, and healthful, good-looking face, was very carefully supporting her, and guarding against her running away. So, after all, there was nothing improper in it, and she could not help herself. The idea of the compulsion comforted Flora.
Footsteps approached by-and-by. It was not Mr. Fitzherbert. It was George, the Falcon’s Craig groom, and Johnnie Halflin, to whom Duncan Roy had communicated some hint of his intention. The punishment was far too just, the fun far too good, for these mischief-loving lads to let it slip. They had come to assist the Macalpines. George was making horrible faces. His veins were perfectly swoln with the might of his suppressed laughter. Johnnie had a little pink pocket-handkerchief—a keepsake from Bessie—thrust bodily into his capacious mouth. The Macalpines were graver; a quiet glee was shooting from the eyes of Duncan Roy, and Angus sometimes smiled—but the smile was an angry one.
“But, Angus,” whispered Flora; “mind, you maun promise that you’ll no hurt him?”
“I’ll try,” was the emphatic response.
“Eh! but Duncan—Angus! Dinna hurt him, for ony sake.—Just fear him, or I’ll rin away this moment.”
It was easier said than done. That mighty arm of Angus Macalpine’s might have restrained a man of his own inches without any particular strain.
“We’ll no hurt him, Flora,” said Duncan encouragingly,—”We’ll only douk him, forbye—Listen! There he is—in behint the bush, lads. Angus, let Flora go.”
It was indeed Fitzherbert. They could hear his swaggering step as he advanced, whistling gaily.
“I’ll whistle ye!” exclaimed the angry Angus, in a strong undertone. “If ye were ance in my hands, my lad, ye’ll whistle or ye get out again!”
Flora had only time to speak another earnest remonstrance, when her admirer appeared.