Fortunate he was in having for his fellow-deputy Dr. Watson, the minister of Dundee, who thought with him on religious matters (though _pawky_ to the point of genius) and was kin to him in spirit. To hear these two in the parts of Highland drovers was, by all accounts, the greatest treat in the world. After a short stay in Paris, where Macleod preached, and got a collection for the expenses of the deputation, on the sixth of November they embarked at Marseilles, having chosen the overland passage. Macleod was charmed with the coast scenery about Toulon; Corsica and Sardinia reminded him of the Western Highlands; but in all the Mediterranean there was no sight that affected him so much as the house of Garibaldi. At Alexandria he learned from his old dragoman, whom he happened to meet, that travellers, ever since the advice given in _Eastward_, were examining the backs of horses and mules before they bought them, so that Meeki, able to cheat no more, had taken to another trade. Thus Macleod had for certain done one good thing in his life. On the voyage down the Red Sea, having once preached for an hour with the thermometer at 90°, he got a warning of what might be in store for him in India. ‘At the close,’ says Dr. Watson, ‘he was almost dead; his face was flushed, his head ached, his brain was confused, and when he retired to his cabin the utmost efforts were required to restore him.’ Old Indians poured jugs of iced water over his head. Yet, referring to the heat, he could write home, ‘I just thaw on, laugh and joke, and feel quite happy.’ One morning he got up at three o’clock, and in ‘a white Damascus camel-hair dressing-gown’ sat on deck, sneering at the Southern Cross. According to his wont he was taken up with his fellow-passengers, among whom were soldiers who had fought in the Mutiny, young officers on their way to Magdala, civilians who had governed provinces and spent years among the remotest tribes, politicians, journalists, and adventurers. Unlike his companion, he had a cabin to himself, and, in the course of the voyage, it was more and more like a pawnbroker’s shop. One day Watson perceived in the chaos a decent silk hat with its sides meeting like a trampled tin pan. ‘Man,’ said Norman, by way of explanation, ‘last night I felt something very pleasant at my feet; I put my feet on it and rested them--I was half asleep. How very kind, I thought, of the steward to put in an extra air cushion! and when I looked in the morning, it was my hat.’ In the bustle of the preparations for landing at Bombay he was heard crying, ‘Steward, did you see my red fez?’ ‘Is it a blue one?’ ‘No!’ roared Norman, ‘it’s a red one. If you see it, bring it, and if any fellow won’t give it up, bring his head along with it.’ So Watson writes to Mrs. Macleod. Macleod, for his part, complaining to Mrs. Watson of her husband’s inextinguishable laughter, declares, ‘But for my constant gravity he would ruin the deputation.’ He was presented with