his gun from the pile of planks where he had concealed it, and amused
himself by working the trigger. The weapon was a long, heavy carbine,
which had doubtless belonged to some smuggler. The thickness of the butt
and the breech of the barrel showed it to be an old flintlock which had
been altered into a percussion gun by some local gunsmith. Such firearms
are to be found in farmhouses, hanging against the wall over the
chimney-piece. The young man caressed his weapon with affection; twenty
times or more he pulled the trigger, thrust his little finger into the
barrel, and examined the butt attentively. By degrees he grew full of
youth enthusiasm, combined with childish frolicsomeness, and ended by
levelling his weapon and aiming at space, like a recruit going through
his drill.

It was now very nearly eight o'clock, and he had been holding his gun
levelled for over a minute, when all at once a low, panting call, light
as a breath, came from the direction of the Jas-Meiffren.

"Are you there, Silvere?" the voice asked.

Silvere dropped his gun and bounded on to the tombstone.

"Yes, yes," he replied, also in a hushed voice. "Wait, I'll help you."

Before he could stretch out his arms, however, a girl's head appeared
above the wall. With singular agility the damsel had availed herself of
the trunk of a mulberry-tree, and climbed aloft like a kitten. The ease
and certainty with which she moved showed that she was familiar with
this strange spot. In another moment she was seated on the coping of
the wall. Then Silvere, taking her in his arms, carried her, though not
without a struggle, to the seat.