He felt that it was very cold, but it did not seem to matter, so long as he could lie still there in bed with the window wide open, looking at the stars; but by degrees he became conscious that his legs ached and his arms felt sore, and the idea struck him that he should be much more comfortable if he got up and shut the window, for it was very cold.

It was a long time before he made the effort to do this, and when he did, a curious aching pain shot through him, and in a flash he knew that he was not at Dunroe, but lying there somewhere in the mountains on the wet gra.s.s, and he remembered all he had gone through.

He lay piecing it all together, and involuntarily his hand went to his pockets, to find watch, chain, purse, pocket-book, all there safely, and that he was unhurt.

Was it all a dream?

No; he felt that it was real enough, and that he must not lie there, but rise once more, and try hard, and, he hoped, with better fortune, to find some place where he could obtain shelter.

Making an effort which cost him no little pain, he turned over and struggled to his knees, but only to sink down again, feeling absolutely helpless, and ready to declare to himself that, come what might, he could not stir till morning, even if he were able then.

Looking helplessly about him, it was to see that the night was brilliantly clear, and that there was a gleam of water somewhere down far below on his right, for the stars were reflected from it. But it seemed more restful to lie there waiting, and, cold as he was, it was a dull, numbing cold that was far less painful than trying to move.

All at once he shivered with dread, for there was a rushing sound as of some creatures galloping, and he could hear faint snortings and the panting of heavy breath.

Some herd of wild animals had gone by. It could not be sheep, for the movement was too swift; but once more all was silent, and he was sinking into a half-drowsy condition, more resembling the approach of stupor than sleep, when he started back into wakefulness, for he heard in the distance the sharp barking of a dog.

This died away, grew louder, died away again, and then seemed to be coming steadily nearer and nearer, but, as it approached, so did the stupefying sensation, till the barking died right away; the stars were again blotted out, and Max knew no more till he started to himself again in alarm, as the cold, wet nose of a dog was touching his face. There was a quick snuffling about him, and then there was a loud burst of barking, and he felt that the dog who barked was standing with his forepaws on his chest. "Dirk," he said feebly; "is it you, Dirk?" The dog gave a whining cry, licked at his face, and then barked again with all his might.

Then there was silence, and from out of the distant darkness came a low hail.

The dog barked again sharply, and stopped, when there was the hail again more loudly, and this was repeated at intervals as the dog scuffled about, running a little way to bark, and then coming, back to plant his paws on Max's chest.

All this now seemed part of a dream, till he was roused again by hearing a panting sound, feeling his hand seized, and then hearing a familiar voice shout,--

"Father, ahoy! Tavvy, ahoy! Here he is!" and, as the dog whined and barked again, there were faint hails from the distance. Then these grew louder, and the next thing Max heard was,--

"Oh, Maxy, old lad!" and a warm hand was laid upon his brow.

Then there was more hailing, and barking, and an impatient muttering, and then there were deeper voices talking close by where he lay, and, as if in part of his dream, something hot and strangling seemed to be trickling down his throat.

"There," said a deep voice which seemed very familiar, "she'll ket the plaidie round the laddie when she's cot her on her pack, and that and ta whusky'll warm her."

"I'll carry him when you are tired, Tavish," said another familiar voice.

"She can carry ta puir laddie all tay an' all nicht. Maister Ken, t.i.t ye iver see a tog wi' a petter nose than Dirk?"

"No, Tavvy; but do make haste."

"Ay, laddie; but bide a wee, till she cot her well upo' her shouthers.

There. Noo, ta plaidie. Noo then, we can get there in twice twa hoors.

She'll go first."

"Oh, father, are we too late?" came then in a whisper to Max's ears, as he felt himself being once more carried.

"Please G.o.d, no, my boy!" came back hoa.r.s.ely.

Then there was another loud and joyful burst of barking, and then all blank.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

AN EXCITING CHASE.

"Scood! you beast!"

"Silence, Kenneth!" cried The Mackhai sternly, as he looked half-angrily, half-pleased at the flushed face of the young gillie.

"She ton't care. She'll fecht for ta Mackhai till she ties."

"Leave the room, sir!" cried The Mackhai. "You meant well, but you have done a cruel and cowardly thing."

Scoodrach hung his head, and stooped to pick up his bonnet by one of the strands of the worsted tuft, letting the soft flat cap spin slowly round as he watched it, and then he moved toward the door.

"Stop!" cried The Mackhai.

Scoodrach turned sharply and defiantly round, with his hot northern blood flushing to his temples.

"Ta Chief may kill her," he cried; "but she shall na say she's sorry."

"Go and fetch Tavish and your father, sir, and never dare to address me again like that."

Scoodrach slunk out of the room, and, as he turned to shut the door, his eyes met those of Kenneth, who shook his fist at him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Scoodrach doubled his own, and looked defiance as the door was closed.

"Never dare to address me again like that!" muttered The Mackhai. "Poor lad! there is no fear."

"What shall we do, father?"

"Do? We must all set out in search of Max, and bring him back. In my anger, Ken, I have done a brutal thing."

"But you did not mean it, father."

"How could he know that? See if he has taken his luggage. No, no; impossible! The poor lad has wandered right away into the mountains, and I am to blame. Get the ponies, Kenneth; we may do better mounted.

I suppose," he added bitterly, "we may use them for the present."

Kenneth darted out of the room, met Tavish and Long Shon, and in a very few minutes the two st.u.r.dy little ponies were in the old courtyard, The Mackhai and his son mounting, and the little party starting off at once.

Before they had gone far, The Mackhai turned his head.

"Where is that boy?" he said.

No one replied, for Scood had not been seen to leave, but from where he was seated Kenneth could just see a tuft of wool sticking up above the heather, and he pressed the sides of his pony and cantered back to where the boy lay upon his face in a hollow, with his bonnet tilted on to the back of his head.

"Here, Scoody! What are you doing there?" cried Kenneth.

"Naething."