On the seats and floor of the carriage a litter of books and papers showed how they had been striving to beguile the time, but human nature had given in at last, and they were now reduced to a state of exhaustion, to get through the next few hours as best they could until their arrival at Chiasso, where they intended to leave the train and drive over to their destination at Cernobbio, on Lake Como. "Oh Jove!" groaned the lad in the corner, settling himself into a more comfortable position, "what a devil of a day." "The first oath," murmured the recumbent man lazily, with his eyes still closed, "is apt, and smacks of classic culture suitable to the land of Italy, but the latter is English and barbaric." "Oh, bother," retorted his friend impatiently, "I can't do the subject justice in the way of swearing." "Then don't try; the tortures of Hades are bad enough without the language thereof." "You seem comfortable at all events, Gartney," said the boy crossly. "St. Lawrence," observed Mr. Gartney, opening his eyes, "had a bed of roses on his gridiron compared with this eider-down cushion on which I lie--the saint roasted, I simmer--I'll be quite done by the time we reach Chiasso." "I'm done now," groaned his companion. "Do shut up, Gartney, and I'll try and get some sleep." Gartney laughed softly at the resigned manner in which the other spoke, and once more closed his eyes while his friend, following his example, fell into an uneasy slumber interrupted by frequent sighs and groans. He was a pleasant enough looking boy, but not what would be called handsome, with his merry grey eyes, his rather wide mouth, his well-cut nose with sensitive nostrils, and his wavy auburn hair suiting his fair freckled skin; all these taken individually were by no means faultless, yet altogether they made up a countenance which most people liked. Then he had a tall, well-knit figure, and as he dressed well, rode well, was an adept in all kinds of athletic sports, with exuberant animal spirits and a title, Angus Macjean, Master of Otterburn, was a general favourite with his own sex, and a particular favourite with the other. What wit and humour the lad possessed came from his Irish mother, who died, poor soul, shortly after he was born, and was not sorry to leave the world either, seeing it was rendered so unpleasant by her stern Presbyterian husband. Why she married Lord Dunkeld when, as a Dublin belle, she could have done so much better, was a mystery to everyone, but at all events marry him she did with the aforesaid results, death for herself after a year of unhappy married life, and an heir to the Macjean title.