162 SUMMER-TIDE IN A HIGHLAND FOREST 



the sub-species Piscator, at least — cannot always be 

 reckoned reasonable. The ' last infirmity of noble minds ' 

 must always be taken into account as a disturbing 

 element; and, just as it landed the great Napoleon in 

 Longwood, so it brought discomfiture on me this day. 

 Four or five miles across the hills behind the lodge, and 

 parallel with Amhuin Aoidh, lies Strath Guseran, through 

 which flows — or rather flies — the Guseran, a torrent only 

 to be fished successfully in a few hours of falling flood. 

 It is not always easy to sift history out of myth : perhaps 

 the records of great fishings in this stream are open 

 to be impugned. Nevertheless, they exist, and are of the 

 kind to fire every latent spark of ambition. On the 

 morrow, therefore, rejecting the wiser gillie's counsel, I 

 was off betimes to the Guseran. It had rained aU night, 

 but was now clear — the very concatenation of conditions 

 most favourable for that fickle stream. It was tumbling 

 about in fine style among its grand rocks, and the delusion 

 was well sustained for some time. A salmon slipped up 

 and missed the fly from the slack water beside a rushing 

 stream ; nothing would induce him to return. Precisely 

 the same thing happened in the next resting-place : rather 

 provoking, but not discouraging, for the day was still very 

 young. In a third, lodge things went better : the fly was 

 seized close to the foot of a cliff, and the tug-of-war 

 began. There was not much scope for tactics : the pool 

 was no more than a pot, and the current was tremendous. 

 Twice or thrice the fish ran perilously near the rapids: 

 once let him get into them, and he was free, for the tackle 

 was far too fine to hold him. Ah ! I thought so ; losing 

 his balance, he topples over the verge and rolls away down 

 the rapids far faster than I can scramble after him. 



