“It’s a pity his lordship hadn’t on his kilt,” put in Mr. Gallosh genially.

“By ze Gad, I vill put him on!  Hoch!  Ve vill have some fon!”

The Baron rushed from the hall, followed in a moment by his noble friend.  Bunker found him already wrapping many yards of tartan about his waist.

“But, my dear fellow, you must take off your trousers,” he expostulated.

Despite his glee, the Baron answered with something of the Blitzenberg dignity—­

“Ze bare leg I cannot show to-night—­not to dance mit ze young ladies.  Ven I have practised, perhaps; but not now, Bonker.”

Accordingly the portraits of four centuries of Tulliwuddles beheld their representative appear in the very castle of Hechnahoul with his trouser-legs capering beneath an ill-hung petticoat of tartan.  And, to make matters worse in their canvas eyes, his own shameless laugh rang loudest in the mirth that greeted his entrance.

“Ze garb of Gaul!” he announced, shaking with hilarity.  “Gom, Bonker, dance mit me ze Highland fling!”

The first night of Lord Tulliwuddle’s visit to his ancestral halls is still remembered among his native hills.  The Count also, his mind now rapturously at ease, performed prodigies.  They danced together what they were pleased to call the latest thing in London, sang a duet, waltzed with the younger ladies, till hardly a head was left unturned, and, in short, sent away the ministers and their ladies, the five Miss Cameron-Campbells, the reading-party, and particularly the factor, with a new conception of a Highland chief.  As for the house-party, they felt that they were fortunate beyond the lot of most ordinary mortals.

CHAPTER X

The Baron sat among his heirlooms, laboriously disengaging himself from his kilt.  Fitfully throughout this process he would warble snatches of an air which Miss Gallosh had sung.

“Whae vould not dee for Sharlie?” he trolled, “Ze yong chevalier!”

“Then you don’t think of leaving to-morrow morning?” asked Count Bunker, who was watching him with a complacent air.

“Mein Gott, no fears!”

“We had better wait, perhaps, till the afternoon?”

“I go not for tree veeks!  Gaben sie—­das ist, gim’me zat tombler.  Vun more of mountain juice to ze health of all Galloshes!  Partic’ly of vun!  Eh, old Bonker?”

The Count took care to see that the mountain juice was well diluted.  His friend had already found Scottish hospitality difficult to enjoy in moderation.

“Baron, you gave us a marvellously lifelike representation of a Jacobite chieftain!”

The Baron laughed a trifle vacantly.

“Ach, it is easy for me.  Himmel, a Blitzenberg should know how!  Vollytoddle—­Toddyvolly—­whatsh my name, Bonker?”

The Count informed him.

“Tollivoddlesh is nozing to vat I am at home!  Abs’lutely nozing!  I have a house twice as big as zis, and servants—­Ach, so many I know not!  Bot, mein Bonker, it is not soch fon as zis!  Mein Gott, I most get to bed.  I toss ze caber to-morrow.”