Dissembling her hate, she entertained the king very splendidly, and after dinner conducted him out to view the beauties of the place and the structure of her castle; and Kenneth, pleased with her beauty (which her raiment enhanced), for she wore a dress of blue silk, without sleeves, a mantle of fine linen, fastened by a brooch of silver, and all her golden hair floating on her shoulders, accompanied her into a tower, where, in an upper apartment, and amid rich festooned arras and 'curious sculptures' stood the infernal machine. She courteously and smilingly requested the king to take the golden apple from the right hand of the statue; and he, amazed by the strange conceit, did so; on this a rushing sound was heard within it as a string or cord gave way, and from its mouth there came forth two barbed arrows which mortally wounded him, and he fell at her feet. Finella fled to Den Finella, and Kenneth was found by his retinue '_bullerand in his blude_.' Den Finella, says a writer, is said, in the genuine spirit of legendary lore, to have obtained its name from this princess, who, the more readily to evade her pursuers, stepped from the branches of one tree to those of another the whole way from her castle to this den, which is near the sea, in the parish of St. Cyres, as all the country then was a wild forest. Buchanan deems all this story a fable, though asserted by John Major and Hector Boece, and thinks it more probable that the king was slain near Fettercairn in an ambush prepared by Finella. So ended the legend. As the girl read on, Vivian Hammersley had bent lower and lower over her, till the tip of his moustache nearly touched her rich dark hair, and his arm all but stole round her. Finella Melfort was quite conscious of this close proximity, and though she did not shrink from it, that consciousness made her colour deepen and her sweet voice become unsteady. 'That is the story of Finella of Fettercairn,' said she, closing the book. 'And to this awful legend of the dark ages, which only wants blue-fire, lime-light, and a musical accompaniment to set it off, you owe your name?' said he, laughingly. 'Yes--it was grandfather's whim.' 'It is odd that you--the belle of the last London season, should be named after such a grotesque old termagant!' She looked up at him smilingly, and then, as their eyes met, the expression of that glance exchanged beside the well on the hills came into them again; heart spoke to heart; he bent his face nearer hers, and his arm went round her in earnest. 'Finella, my darling!' escaped him, and as he kissed her unresisting lips, her blushing face was hidden on his shoulder. And _this_ tableau was the result of the two days' shooting--a sudden result which neither Shafto nor Hammersley had quite foreseen.