of the Atlantic swell into the great caverns could be heard; Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman were of a dismal black; the brighter colors of Ulva and Colonsay seemed coldly gray and green; and heavy banks of cloud lay along the land, running out to Ru-Treshanish.  The noise of the stream rushing down through the fir-wood close to the castle seemed louder than usual, as if rain had fallen during the night.  It was rather cold, too:  all that Lady Macleod and Janet could say failed to raise the spirits of their guest.

But when Macleod—­dressed in his homespun tartan of yellow and black—­came round from the kennels with the dogs, and Hamish, and the tall red-headed lad Sandy, it appeared that they considered this to be rather a fine day than otherwise, and were eager to be off.

“Come along, Ogilvie.”  Macleod cried, as he gave his friend’s gun to Sandy, but shouldered his own.  “Sorry we haven’t a dog-cart to drive you to the moor, but it is not far off.”

“I think a cigar in the library would be the best thing for a morning like this,” said Ogilvie, rather gloomily, as he put up the collar of his shooting-jacket, for a drop or two of rain had fallen.

“Nonsense, man! the first bird you kill will cheer you up.”

Macleod was right; they had just passed through the wood of young larches close to Castle Dare, and were ascending a rough stone road that led by the side of a deep glen, when a sudden whir close by them startled the silence of this gloomy morning.  In an instant Macleod had whipped his gun from his shoulder and thrust it into Ogilvie’s hands.  By the time the young man had full-cocked the right barrel and taken a quick aim, the bird was half way across the valley; but all the same he fired.  For another second the bird continued its flight, but in a slightly irregular fashion; then down it went like a stone into the heather on the opposite side of the chasm.

“Well done, sir!” cried old Hamish.

“Bravo!” called out Macleod.

“It was a grand long shot!” said Sandy, as he unslipped the sagacious old retriever, and sent her down into the glen.

They had scarcely spoken when another dark object, looking to the startled eye as if it were the size of a house, sprang from the heather close by, and went off like an arrow, uttering a succession of sharp crowings.  Why did not he fire?  Then they saw him in wild despair whip down the gun, full-cock the left barrel, and put it up again.  The bird was just disappearing over a crest of rising ground, and as Ogilvie fired he disappeared altogether.

“He’s down, sir!” cried Hamish, in great excitement.

“I don’t think so,” Ogilvie answered, with a doubtful air on his face, but with a bright gladness in his eyes all the same.