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Updated: May 31, 2025
Had he met them after a like interval at home, he would have given them a cooler greeting; but he had travelled so many miles that they seemed not to have met for quite a long time. "My friend, Mr. Sercombe," he said, jerking his head toward the gig. Mr. Sercombe raised his POT-LID the last fashion in head-gear and acquaintance was made. "We'll drive on, Sercombe," said Valentine, jumping up.
The next morning came a note to the cottage, in which Sercombe thanked the Macruadh for changing his mind, and said that, although he was indeed glad to have secured such a splendid head, he would certainly have stalked another deer, had he known the chief set such store by the one in question.
Neither Christian nor Sercombe had yet shot a single stag, and the time was drawing nigh when they must return, the one to Glasgow, the other to London. To have no proof of prowess to display was humbling to Sercombe; he must show a stag's head, or hide his own!
"They worship the stag, these peasants, as the old Egyptians the bull!" said Sercombe to himself, walking home full of contempt. Alister went straight to his brother's room, his heart bursting with indignation. It was some time before Ian could get the story from him in plain consecution; every other moment he would diverge into fierce denunciations.
Sercombe and Christian sauntered along in the company, talking now to one, now to another of the village girls.
He was silent with disgust at the nonsense of it all. They reached the door of the cottage. Alister invited him to walk in. He drew back, and would have excused himself. "You had better lie down a while," said Alister. "You shall come to my room," said Ian. "We shall meet nobody." Sercombe yielded, for he felt queer. He threw himself on Ian's bed, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.
"It was his duty to capture a poacher! But you did not know he was deaf and dumb!" Alister added, as some excuse. "The deaf makes no difference!" protested Bob. "Hector of the Stags does not fight with his hands like a woman!" "Well, what's done is done!" laughed Sercombe. "It wasn't a bad shot anyhow!" "You have little to plume yourself upon, Mr. Sercombe!" said the chief.
Sercombe neither returned the head, sent an apology, nor recognized the gift. That he had shot the stag was enough! But these things wrought shaping the idea of the brothers in the minds of the sisters, and they were beginning to feel a strange confidence in them, such as they had never had in men before.
"I misunderstood you." "Say rather you had not the courtesy to heed what I told you-had not faith enough to take the word of a gentleman! And for this my poor stag has suffered!" He stood for some moments in conflict with himself, then quietly resumed. "Of course, Mr. Sercombe, I have no intention of pushing the matter!" he said. "I should hope not!" returned Sercombe scornfully.
Peregrine Palmer's land and that of the chief, and had imagined himself safe on the south side of the big burn. Alister gazed speechless for a moment on the slaughtered stag, and heaved a great sigh. "Mr. Sercombe," he said, "I would rather you had shot my best horse! Are you aware, sir, that you are a poacher?"
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