“Get out, you old sniveller—­what do you mean by a Trojan?”

“A Trojan, sir, I was tould, is a man that lives by sellin’ wild-fowl.  They take an oath, sir, before they begin the trade, never to die until they can’t help it.”

“You mean to say, or to hint at least, that in addition to our other dangers we run the risk of coming in contact with poachers?”

“Well, then, sir, if I don’t mistake they’re out to-night.  However, don’t let us alarm one another.  God forbid that I’d say a single word to frighten you; but still, you know yourself that there’s many a man not a hundred miles from us that ’ud be glad to mistake you for a target, a mallard, or any other wild-fowl or that description.”

“In the meantime we are both well armed,” replied his master; “but what I fear most is the risk we run of falling down precipices, or walking into lakes or quagmires.  What’s to be done?  This fog is so cursedly cold that it has chilled my very blood into ice.”

“Our best plan, sir, is to dismount, and keep ourselves warm by taking a pleasant stroll across the country.  The horses will take care of themselves.  In the meantime keep up your spirits—­we’ll both want something to console us; but this I can tell you, that devil a bit of tombstone ever will go over either of us, barrin’ the sky in heaven; and for our coffins, let us pray to the coffin-maker, bekaise, you see, it’s the maddhu ruah * (the foxes), and ravens, and other civilized animals that will coffin us both by instalments in their hungry guts, until our bones will be beautiful to look at—­afther about six months’ bleaching—­and a sharp eye ’twould be that ’ud know the difference between masther and man then, I think.”

We omitted to say that a piercing and most severe hoar frost had set in with the fog, and that Cummiskey’s master felt the immediate necessity of dismounting, and walking about, in order to preserve some degree of animal heat in his body.

“I cannot bear this, Andy,” said he, “and these two gallant animals will never recover it after the severe day’s hunting they’ve had.  Poor Fiddler and Piper,” he exclaimed, “this has proved a melancholy day to you both.  What is to be done, Andy?  I am scarcely able to stand, and feel as if my strength had utterly left me.”

“What, sir,” replied his servant, who was certainly deeply attached to his master, “is it so bad with you as all that comes to?  Sure I only thought to amuse you, sir.  Come, take courage; I’ll whistle, and maybe somebody will come to our relief.”

He accordingly put his two fingers into his mouth, and uttered a loud and piercing whistle, after which both stood still for a time, but no reply was given.

“Stop, sir,” proceeded Andrew; “I’ll give them another touch that’ll make them spake, if there’s any one near enough to hear us.”

He once more repeated the whistle, but with two or three peculiar shakes or variations, when almost instantly one of a similar character was given in reply.