The Eagle Cliff

by R. M. Ballantyne

Obedient to this rather inaccurately given word of command, Archie’s troops fell into line, and, with a whooping farewell, continued their march up the glen.

During the remainder of that beautiful afternoon, the artist and pupil continued at their “fascinating” work. Shall we take advantage of our knowledge to lift the curtain, and tell in detail how Milly introduced a few more megatheriums into her painting, and violated nearly all the rules of perspective, to say nothing of colour and chiaro-oscuro? Shall we reveal the multitude of absurd remarks made by the pupil, in his wild attempts at criticism of an art, about which he knew next to nothing? No; it would be unwarrantable—base! Merely remarking that painter and pupil were exceedingly happy, and that they made no advance whatever in the art of painting, we turn to another scene in the neighbourhood of Kinlossie House.

It was a wide grass-field from which the haycocks had recently been removed, leaving it bare and uninteresting. Nevertheless, there were two points of interest in that field which merit special attention. One was a small black bull, with magnificent horns, the shaggiest of coats, and the wickedest of eyes. The other was our friend MacRummle, taking a short cut through the field, with a basket on his back, a rod in one hand, and an umbrella in the other.

We may at once account for the strange presence of the latter article, by explaining that, on the day before—which was rainy—the laird, had with an umbrella, accompanied his friend to his first pool in the river, at which point their roads diverged; that he had stayed to see MacRummle make his first two or three casts, during which time the sky cleared, inducing the laird to close his umbrella, and lean it against the bank, after which he went away and forgot it. Returning home the next day our angler found and took charge of it.

That he had been successful that day was made plain, not only by the extra stoop forward, which was rendered necessary by the weight of his basket, and the beaming satisfaction on his face, but by the protruding tail of a grilse which was too large to find room for the whole of itself, inside.

“You’re a lucky man to-day, Dick,” murmured the enthusiastic angler to himself, as he jogged across the field.

Had he known what was in store for him, however, he would have arrived at a very different estimate of his fortunes!

The field, as we have said, was a large one. MacRummle had reached the centre of it when the black bull, standing beside the wall at its most distant corner, seemed to feel resentment at this trespass on its domain.

It suddenly bellowed in that low thunderous tone which is so awfully suggestive of conscious power. MacRummle stopped short. He was naturally a brave man, nevertheless his heart gave his ribs an unwonted thump when he observed the bull in the distance glaring at him. He looked round in alarm. Nothing but an unbroken flat for a hundred yards lay around him in all directions, unrelieved by bush, rock, or tree, and bounded by a five-foot wall, with only one gate, near to where the bull stood pawing the earth and apparently working itself into a rage.

“Now, Dick,” murmured the old gentleman, seriously, “it’s do or die with you if that brute charges, for your legs are not much better than pipe-stems, and your wind is— Eh! he comes!”