It was in such an attitude Young Islay found him on the Saturday after the episode on the Ramparts. Gilian was in the midst of the same book, trying hard to fill up the gaps that his sacrifice of leaves had brought into the narrative, and Young Islay going a-fishing in the moor-lochs, a keen sportsman all alone, stood over him a very much surprised discoverer. He gave an halloo that brought Gilian to his feet alarmed, for it happened to fit in with some passage in his mind where foes cried. In vain the book went behind the Paymaster’s boy; Islay saw the ragged pages. “Oh!” he cried, “you’ll not cheat me this time; you’re reading.” An annoying contempt was in his manner, and as he stood with his basket slung upon his back, and his rod in the crook of an arm, like a gun, a straight, sturdy lad of neat limb, a handsome face, and short black curls, he was, for a moment, more admirable in Gilian’s eyes than the hero of the book he was ashamed to show. “I had it in my pocket,” said Gilian, in a poor, ineffective explanation, relinquishing the volume with a grudge to the examination of this cynic. “You pretended on the Ramparts you were tearing it up like any other boy,” said Young Islay, “and I was sure you were doing nothing of the kind.” He turned over the pages with scornful fingers. “It’s not a school-book, there’s not a picture in it, it’s full of talking--fancy being here with that rubbish, when you might be fishing with me!” Gilian snatched the volume from him. “You don’t know anything about it!” he cried. “I know _you_ at any rate,” said Young Islay craftily. “You were ashamed of your book; you come here often with books; you do nothing like anybody else; you should have been a girl!” All the resentment of the Paymaster’s boy sprung to his head at this taunt; he threw the book down and dashed a small fist in Young Islay’s face. There he found a youth not slow to reply. Down went the rod and the book, and with the fishing-basket swinging and beating at his back, Young Islay fell upon the zealous student. Gilian’s arms, as he defended or aimed futile blows, felt, in a little, as heavy as lead. Between each blow he aimed there seemed to be a great space of time, and yet his enemy was striking with rapidity. “Are you beaten?” at last cried Young Islay, drawing back for a truce. “No,” said Gilian, gasping. “I’m only tired,’’ but he looked bloody and vanquished. “It’s the same thing,” said Young Islay, picking up his rod. “You can do nothing with your hands; I--I can do anything.” And he drew up with a bantam’s vanity. He moved off. The torn book was in his path. He kicked it before him like a football until he reached the ditch beside the hunting road, and there he left it. A little later Gilian saw him in a distant vista of the trees as an old hunter of the wood, with a gun in his hand and his spoil upon his back, breasting the brae with long strides, a figure of achievement altogether admirable.