A pair of brisk young pointers were selected. We loaded, capped, shouldered our guns, and set forth. This was but the beginning of the day’s sport, and I sighed with impatience for the end. "Shall we try the belt of pines on the Standing Stane Rig?" said I. "It used to be a braw cover for patricks (partridges), and in my father’s day for grouse," said Pitblado; "but those Roosians, the weasels, the piots, the hawks, and the shepherd’s collies, ha’e played the de’il wi’ it. At yon belt o’ neeps, where ye see the shaws aboon the snaw, the deer often come out o’ the pine wood to ha’e a feed, so that we may chance to get a pot shot at one to-day." "Come on, then," said Sir Nigel, impatiently. "Blaze away while you can, Newton. In the first week of next month partridge and pheasant shooting ends." "By that time, uncle, in these swift days of steam, I may be sabreing or potting the Russians." "Then sabre and pot with a will, boy." It was from old Pitblado I had received all my early lessons in shooting and fishing, in the art of casting bullets and making flies; and I remember one special piece of advice he always gave me concerning salmon. "Aye _droon_ your salmon before ye land it, Maister Newton, for the dunt on the heid spyles the quality o’ the fish; ond if ye hook a grilse, keep its tail up and well in the water till it’s clean deid." We saw no deer that day, and I shot so wildly and queerly, and generally bang into the centre of every covey, without selecting or covering the outside birds, that Sir Nigel was bewildered, and old Pitblado lost all patience with me. I traversed the snow-covered fields with them as one might do in a dream. I heard an occasional shot from my uncle’s gun, the birds rose whirring in the air, and then one or two came tumbling down, to beat the snow with their wings, and stain it with their blood, ere Pitblado thrust them into his ample bag. I heard his deep impressive voice saying from time to time, "Mark!" when the coveys rose, and to watch where they alighted; then "Seek dead" to the pointers usually followed the bang! bang! of Sir Nigel’s barrels; but my mind was completely absorbed in reverie. I saw only the face of Louisa Loftus, with Berkeley hovering about her.