268 WILD SPORTS OF THE HIGHLANDS. [cap. xxxiv, 
name of barn, where, rolled in my plaid, and burrowed in the 
straw, I slept free from the ten thousand nightly visitants called 
fleas, which would have eaten me up in Willie Young’s house, 
where, on a former occasion, I had discovered that they rivalled 
the celebrated plague of Egypt in number and power of torment- 
ing. My two attendants, Donald and Malcolm, slept somewhere 
near me, as I heard them talking till a very late hour, probably 
consulting about their plans of attack for the next day. 
Before the sun was above the heathery brae which was to the 
east of us, I looked out and saw the opposite mountain tops 
already lighted up, and illuminated in the most beautiful and 
fanciful manner—the glare catching the projecting peaks and 
angles, and throwing the other parts of the rocks and heights into 
the deepest shade. Donald was sitting on a stone, rubbing his 
eyes and his gunlocks alternately with his ancient “ pocket nap- 
kin,” as he called it. Malcolm and the shepherd were leaning 
against the corner of the house chattering Gaelic, while the rather 
pretty wife of the latter, bare-headed and bare-legged, was com- 
ing over from the cow-byre with a tin pail of fresh and frothing 
milk. ‘I hope your honour slept weel; Ill be taking your 
breakfast ben the house directly,” said pretty Mrs. Young. The 
two hounds were yawning and stretching themselves in front of 
the door, and received me with a joyful though rough welcome, 
Bran putting his front paws on my shoulders, and Oscar almost 
knocking me down by running and rubbing against my legs. The 
shepherd’s two colley-dogs were standing down at the burn side 
with their tails between their legs, barking and howling at their 
unusual four-legged visitors, who occasionally looked, first at the 
colleys and then at me, as much as to say, ‘‘ Shall we punish their 
impertinence, or not?” One word of encouragement would 
have sent the two hounds full chace after the yelping curs. 
Breakfast done, we started to look for the stag. The shepherd 
went with us, anxious to see the sport, and we were glad of his 
assistance in finding the deer, as he was so well acquainted with 
the animal’s haunts. On our way he told us that he had no 
doubt we should at once find him, but that the dogs would have 
hard work to kill him, as he was an old cunning fellow, and was 
supposed to be the same stag who had killed the greyhound of 
Rory beg, the fox-hunter, last year, in a corrie at some distance 
