"Sir!" stammered Quentin, his natural indignation rising as he perceived the other's resolute intention of insulting him. "I say, what the deuce have you, or such as you, to do with that gun, and on these grounds?" Quentin drew back, haughtily, in growing anger and surprise, and fearing that the Master was mad or intoxicated, and that he was about to make an assault, he very naturally brought the fowling-piece to the position of charging. "What, you scoundrel! would you charge me breast high?" cried the Master, choking with rage; "would you shoot me as the poacher Campbell shot Lord Eglinton on his own lands, here in Ayrshire too? I'll teach you to know your proper place, you scurvy young dog!" With these injurious words, and before even Quentin, who was completely astounded by the wantonness of the whole affair, could be aware of his purpose, Cosmo rushed upon him, wrenched the gun away, and clubbing it, dealt the poor lad a terrible blow on the head with the heavy iron butt, stretching him senseless on the grass. Then uttering a heavy malediction, the fierce Master, still boiling with unappeased rage, passed through the ivied-gateway and entered the mansion. Having the fowling-piece in his hand, force of habit led him towards the gun-room, where he proceeded to draw the charge, for it was still loaded, and to leave it for the under-game-keeper to clean. Perceiving that there was blood on the lock and also on his straw-coloured kid gloves, he carefully wiped the former, and threw the latter into a stove. Regret he had none for the atrocity just committed; but he disliked the appearance of blood, it looked ugly, he thought--dangerous, and deuced ugly. "Egad, I hope I haven't killed the young rascal!" he muttered; "how the deuce am I to explain the affair to the old people?--they will be certain to blame me." Stepping from the gun-room into the library, which adjoined it, he was suddenly met by Lady Rohallion, who gave him an affectionate glance, which suddenly turned to one of anxiety, as she surveyed him by the last light of the sunset, that streamed through a deeply-embayed window. With an assumed smile and some commonplace remark, he was about to pass on, shame and mortification compelling the concealment of what he had done, when she laid her hands on his arm, and said tenderly, "Dearest Cosmo, what has happened--you look extremely pale?" "Do I, mother--pale, eh?" "Yes, and quite ruffled too," she added. "Well, perhaps so--your friend Flora is the cause." "Flora Warrender?" "Yes." "Explain, Cosmo, explain?" she asked with evident uneasiness. "I had a long conversation with her in the garden, and it was decidedly more animated than amatory in the end." "You quarrelled?" "Not at all--I proposed," he replied, with a strange smile. "And were accepted?" "The reverse." "Rejected--you--_my_ son, rejected?"