He was slowly wandering, where never wind blew, betwixt rows of stately hollyhocks, on which his eyes fed, while his ears were filled with the sweet noises of a little fountain, issuing from the upturned beak of a marble swan, which a marble urchin sought in vain to check by squeezing the long throat of the bird, when the sounds of its many-toned fall in the granite basin seemed suddenly centupled on every side, and Malcolm found himself caught in a tremendous shower. Prudent enough to avoid getting wet in the present state of his health, he made for an arbour he saw near by, on the steep side of the valley--one he had never before happened to notice. Now it chanced that Lord Lossie himself was in the garden, and, caught also by the rain while feeding some pet goldfishes in a pond, betook himself to the same summer-house, following Malcolm. Entering the arbour, Malcolm was about to seat himself until the shower should be over, when, perceiving a mossy arched entrance to a gloomy recess in the rock behind, he went to peep into it, curious to see what sort of a place it was. Now the foolish whim of a past generation had, in the farthest corner of the recess, and sideways from the door, seated the figure of a hermit, whose jointed limbs were so furnished with springs and so connected with the stone that floored the entrance, that as soon as a foot pressed the threshold, he rose, advanced a step, and held out his hand. The moment, therefore, Malcolm stepped in, up rose a pale, hollow-cheeked, emaciated man, with eyes that stared glassily, made a long skeleton-like stride towards him, and held out a huge bony hand, rather, as it seemed, with the intent of clutching, than of greeting, him. An unaccountable horror seized him; with a gasp which had nearly become a cry, he staggered backwards out of the cave. It seemed to add to his horror that the man did not follow--remained lurking in the obscurity behind. In the arbour Malcolm turned-- turned to flee!--though why, or from what, he had scarce an idea. But when he turned he encountered the marquis, who was just entering the arbour. “Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, “I’m glad----” But his glance became fixed in a stare; he changed colour, and did not finish his sentence. “I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” said Malcolm, wondering through all his perturbation at the look he had brought on his master’s face; “I didna ken ye was at han’.” “What the devil makes you look like that?” said the marquis, plainly with an effort to recover himself. Malcolm gave a hurried glance over his shoulder. “Ah! I see!” said his lordship, with a mechanical kind of smile, very unlike his usual one; “--you’ve never been in there before?” “No, my lord.” “And you got a fright?” “Ken ye wha’s that, in there, my lord?” “You booby! It’s nothing but a dummy--with springs, and--and --all damned tom-foolery!”