The stars were twinkling brightly when Max Blande looked at them again,
and for some time there was nothing else but stars.
But they were above him, and, as he looked up at them, they looked down
at him.
He felt that it was very cold, but it did not seem to matter, so long as
he could lie still there in bed with the window wide open, looking at
the stars; but by degrees he became conscious that his legs ached and
his arms felt sore, and the idea struck him that he should be much more
comfortable if he got up and shut the window, for it was very cold.
It was a long time before he made the effort to do this, and when he
did, a curious aching pain shot through him, and in a flash he knew that
he was not at Dunroe, but lying there somewhere in the mountains on the
wet grass, and he remembered all he had gone through.
He lay piecing it all together, and involuntarily his hand went to his
pockets, to find watch, chain, purse, pocket-book, all there safely, and
that he was unhurt.
Was it all a dream?
No; he felt that it was real enough, and that he must not lie there, but
rise once more, and try hard, and, he hoped, with better fortune, to
find some place where he could obtain shelter.
Making an effort which cost him no little pain, he turned over and
struggled to his knees, but only to sink down again, feeling absolutely
helpless, and ready to declare to himself that, come what might, he
could not stir till morning, even if he were able then.
Looking helplessly about him, it was to see that the night was
brilliantly clear, and that there was a gleam of water somewhere down
far below on his right, for the stars were reflected from it. But it
seemed more restful to lie there waiting, and, cold as he was, it was a
dull, numbing cold that was far less painful than trying to move.
All at once he shivered with dread, for there was a rushing sound as of
some creatures galloping, and he could hear faint snortings and the
panting of heavy breath.
Some herd of wild animals had gone by. It could not be sheep, for the
movement was too swift; but once more all was silent, and he was sinking
into a half-drowsy condition, more resembling the approach of stupor
than sleep, when he started back into wakefulness, for he heard in the
distance the sharp barking of a dog.
This died away, grew louder, died away again, and then seemed to be
coming steadily nearer and nearer, but, as it approached, so did the
stupefying sensation, till the barking died right away; the stars were
again blotted out, and Max knew no more till he started to himself again
in alarm, as the cold, wet nose of a dog was touching his face. There
was a quick snuffling about him, and then there was a loud burst of
barking, and he felt that the dog who barked was standing with his
forepaws on his chest. "Dirk," he said feebly; "is it you, Dirk?" The
dog gave a whining cry, licked at his face, and then barked again with
all his might.
Then there was silence, and from out of the distant darkness came a low
hail.
The dog barked again sharply, and stopped, when there was the hail again
more loudly, and this was repeated at intervals as the dog scuffled
about, running a little way to bark, and then coming, back to plant his
paws on Max's chest.
All this now seemed part of a dream, till he was roused again by hearing
a panting sound, feeling his hand seized, and then hearing a familiar
voice shout,--
"Father, ahoy! Tavvy, ahoy! Here he is!" and, as the dog whined and
barked again, there were faint hails from the distance. Then these grew
louder, and the next thing Max heard was,--
"Oh, Maxy, old lad!" and a warm hand was laid upon his brow.
Then there was more hailing, and barking, and an impatient muttering,
and then there were deeper voices talking close by where he lay, and, as
if in part of his dream, something hot and strangling seemed to be
trickling down his throat.
"There," said a deep voice which seemed very familiar, "she'll ket the
plaidie round the laddie when she's cot her on her pack, and that and ta
whusky'll warm her."
"I'll carry him when you are tired, Tavish," said another familiar
voice.
"She can carry ta puir laddie all tay an' all nicht. Maister Ken, tit
ye iver see a tog wi' a petter nose than Dirk?"
"No, Tavvy; but do make haste."
"Ay, laddie; but bide a wee, till she cot her well upo' her shouthers.
There. Noo, ta plaidie. Noo then, we can get there in twice twa hoors.
She'll go first."
"Oh, father, are we too late?" came then in a whisper to Max's ears, as
he felt himself being once more carried.
"Please God, no, my boy!" came back hoarsely.
Then there was another loud and joyful burst of barking, and then all
blank.