Advancing thus, like skirmishers in extended order, on the right flank of the line, were masses of whin-bush (or gorse as it is called in England), displaying still here and there a golden flower; and away on the left the cover went deep into the dark recesses of a copse, under the tall red stems of Scottish firs, larch, and ash-trees. Hew and Cecil were in this quarter, and a little in the rear was the keeper, the latter scanning the whole, as far as he well could, from flank to flank, rebuking from time to time, in his deep, broad Ayrshire Doric, any stupid beater who lagged behind, while the sharp crack of the guns woke the echoes of the dingles, which occasionally seemed to reply to quite an irregular volley. Among the gorse the chief victims were ground game, but amid the coppice the ruddy golden-hued pheasants were momentarily flurried up, and arrested in their whirring flight by the crack of the fatal breechloader. Ever and anon, the voice of the keeper was heard, with the prohibitory cry of-- ''Ware hen--'ware hen, Master Hew!' Among much other spoil, Cecil knocked over a fine cock-pheasant, which fell crashing down among the underwood in the agonies of death--a charge of shot in his gold-speckled breast. 'Why the deuce did you shoot my bird, sir?' demanded Hew with un courteous abruptness of Falconer. 'He thocht, perhaps, ye war gaun to miss it, as ye did the last twa, and the hare,' said the old keeper, drily. 'I beg your pardon,' replied Cecil quietly, as he reloaded; 'but that bird was mine.' 'It was not!' was the blunt and rude rejoinder. Falconer coloured and bit his lip; but thought of his courtly old host, and desirous of avoiding a scene, simply said: 'Let us keep further apart, Mr. Montgomerie.' 'As far off as you please,' added Hew ungraciously, and moving further away to his left. Cecil continued to work his way between the crowded fir and larch stems, which, by receiving many a charge of shot, saved the birds that hovered beyond them, the voice of the keeper crying ever and anon: 'Mark cock!' 'Hare forward!' ''Ware hen.' 'A hare for you, Master Hew--a miss again!' 'Come to heel, Countess--come to heel!' the latter, with the vicious whack of a whip, was directed to one of the pointers. While Cecil was inwardly laughing at Hew's wild shooting, a charge of shot from the right whizzed past his face and tore away the rim of his hat. A natural exclamation of rage and alarm escaped him, as he had so narrowly escaped having his sight destroyed or his face disfigured for life, and looking whence the shot came, he saw Hew gently slipping another cartridge into the breech of his gun, under cover of a great Scottish fir with a red gnarled stem. 'I shall thank you, sir, to keep your muzzle up, or quit the ground!' said Falconer, angrily.