and walked to the entrance of the bridge; but when we reached the path at the side of the bridge it looked such a huge affair, and such a long way across the water, that we decided not to venture without asking some advice.  We waited until we saw coming along the railway track a workman, to whom we confided our intention.  He strongly advised us not to make the attempt, since we should run great bodily risk, as well as make ourselves liable to the heavy fine the railway company had power to inflict.  We rather reluctantly returned to the road we had left, but not before seeing some of the big ships from the bridge—­the finest and last of the iron tubular bridges built by the famous engineer Brunel, the total length, including approaches, being 2,200 feet.  It had been opened by H.R.H. the Prince Consort in 1859, and was named after him the “Royal Albert” Bridge.  We had now to leave the main road and find our way across country, chiefly by means of by-lanes, until we reached Tavistock, where there was a bridge by which we could cross the River Tavy.  We had become quite accustomed to this kind of experience, and looked upon it as a matter of course, for repeatedly in Scotland we had been forced to make a circuit to find the “head of the loch” because we objected to cross the loch itself by a ferry.

[Illustration:  THE “ROYAL ALBERT” BRIDGE, SALTASH]

We had only proceeded a mile or two beyond the great bridge at Saltash, when we came in sight of the village of St. Budeaux, at the entrance of which we came upon a large number of fine-looking soldiers, who, we were informed, were the 42nd Highlanders, commonly known as the Black Watch.  They were crossing a grass-covered space of land, probably the village green, and moving in the same direction as ourselves, not marching in any regular order, but walking leisurely in groups.  We were surprised to see the band marching quietly in the rear, and wondered why they were not marching in front playing their instruments.  The soldiers, however, were carrying firearms, which quite alarmed my brother, who never would walk near a man who carried a gun—­for if there was one thing in the world that he was afraid of more than of being drowned, it was of being shot with a gun, the very sight of which always made him feel most uncomfortable.  He had only used a gun once in all his life, when quite a boy, and was so terrified on that occasion that nothing could ever induce him to shoot again.  He was staying at a farm in the country with a cousin, who undertook to show him how to shoot a bird that was sitting on its nest.  It was a very cruel thing to do, but he loaded the gun and placed it in my brother’s hand in the correct position, telling him to look along the barrel of the gun until he could see the bird, and then pull the trigger.  He did so, and immediately he was on the ground, with the gun on top of him.  His cousin had some difficulty in persuading him that the gun had not gone off at the wrong end and that he was not shot instead of the bird.  It was one of the old-fashioned shot-guns known as “kickers,” and the recoil had sent him flying backwards at the moment of the noise of the discharge—­a combination which so frightened him that he avoided guns ever afterwards.