'No, these marks never pass away!' retorted Madelon; 'there is some devilry at work here. I say, where is Florian? Ay, ay,' she continued; 'my bairn, Florian, was born on a Friday, and a Friday's birth, like a Friday's marriage, seldom is fortunate; but this is no my bonnie black-eyed lad, Lady Fettercairn--so _where_ is he?' 'This is intolerable!' said Lady Fettercairn, whom that name by old association of ideas seemed to irritate; and, on a valet appearing in obedience to a furious ring given to the bell by Shafto, she added, 'Show this intruder out of the house, and do so instantly.' The man was about to put his hand on Madelon, but the old Highland woman drew herself up with an air of defiance, and swept out of the room without another word. 'See her not only out of the house, but off the grounds,' shouted Shafto, who was almost beside himself with rage and genuine fear. 'Nay, I'll see to that myself,' he added. 'Such lunatics are dangerous.' Seeing her hastening down the avenue, he whistled from the stable court a huge mastiff, and by voice and action hounded it on her. The dog bounded about her, barking furiously and tore her skirts to her infinite terror, till the lodgekeeper dragged it off and closed the gates upon her. Then she went upon her way, her Highland heart bursting with rage and longing for revenge. Shafto was glad that Lord Fettercairn was absent, as he might have questioned Madelon Galbraith more closely; but to his cost he was eventually to learn that he had not seen the last of Florian's nurse. This visit taken in conjunction with the mode in which Finella now treated him made Craigengowan somewhat uncomfortable for Shafto, so he betook himself to Edinburgh, and to drown his growing fears plunged into such a mad career of dissipation and extravagance that Lord Fettercairn began to regret that he had ever discovered an heir to his estates at all. While there Shafto saw in the newspaper posters one day the announcement of the terrible disaster at Isandhlwana, 'with the total extirpation of the 24th Warwickshire Foot!' '_His_ regiment, by Jove! I'll have a drink over this good news,' thought the amiable Shafto, and certainly a deep 'drink' he did have. CHAPTER III. A BRUSH WITH THE ZULUS. When Florian recovered consciousness the African sun was high in the sky; but he lay still for a space in his leafy concealment, as he knew not what time had elapsed since he had last seen his mounted pursuers, or how far or how near they might be off. Dried blood plastered all one side of his face, and blood was still oozing from the wound in his temple. Over it he tied his handkerchief, and with his white helmet off--as it was a conspicuous object--he clambered to the edge of the donga and looked about him.