“A pretty wide catalogue, too, I assure you,” said Tony, laughing, and at once recovering his wonted good-humor. “We have made what the officials call the extraordinaires fill a very small column. There!” cried he, suddenly, “is the sea-gull on that point of rock yonder out of range for your rifle?” “Nothing near it. Will you try?” asked Maitland, offering the gun. “I 'd rather see you.” “I 'm something out of practice latterly. I have been leading a town life,” said Maitland, as he drew a small eyeglass from his pocket and fixed it in his eye. “Is it that fellow there you mean? There's a far better shot to the left,--that large diver that is sitting so calmly on the rolling sea. There he is again.” “He 's gone now,--he has dived,” said Tony; “there's nothing harder to hit than one of these birds,--what between the motion of the sea and their own wariness. Some people say that they scent gunpowder.” “That fellow shall!” said Maitland, as he fired; for just as the bird emerged from the depth, he sighted him, and with one flutter the creature fell dead on the wave. “A splendid shot; I never saw a finer!” cried Tony, in ecstasy, and with a look of honest admiration at the marksman. “I'd have bet ten--ay, twenty--to one you 'd have missed. I 'm not sure I 'd not wager against your doing the same trick again.” “You 'd lose your money, then,” said Maitland; “at least, if I was rogue enough to take you up.” “You must be one of the best shots in Europe, then!” “No; they call me second in the Tyrol. Hans Godrel is the first We have had many matches together, and he has always beaten me.” The presence of a royal prince would not have inspired Tony with the same amount of respect as these few words, uttered negligently and carelessly; and he measured the speaker from head to foot, recognizing for the first time his lithe and well-knit, well-proportioned figure. “I 'll be bound you are a horseman, too?” cried Tony. “If you hadn't praised my shooting, I 'd tell you that I ride better than I shoot.” “How I 'd like to have a brush across country with you!” exclaimed Tony, warmly. “What easier?--what so easy? Our friend Sir Arthur has an excellent stable; at least, there is more than one mount for men of our weight I suspect Mark Lyle will not join us; but we 'll arrange a match,--a sort of home steeple-chase.” “I 'd like it well,” broke in Tony, “but I have no horses of my own, and I 'll not ride Sir Arthur's.” “This same independence of ours has a something about it that won't let us seem very amiable, Mr. Maitland,” said the old lady, smiling. “Pardon me, madam; it has an especial attraction for _me_. I have all my life long been a disciple of that school; but I must say that in the present case it is not applicable. I have been for the last couple of weeks a guest at Lyle Abbey; and if I were asked whose name came most often uppermost, and always in terms of praise, I should say--your son's.”