gave proof of. For a time it was as
difficult to mount one as it would be for a fly to alight on a top at full
spin. We took them to the paddock, where the grass and moss were soft.
Donald, Dugald, and I held Flora's fiery steed _vi et armis_ till she got
into the saddle.

'Mind to keep them at it, boys,' were her last words, as she flew out and
away through the open gateway. Then we prepared to follow. Donald, Dugald,
and I were used to tumbles, and for five minutes or more we amused
ourselves by getting up only to get off again. But we were not hurt.
Finally we mounted Archie. His brother was not going out that morning, and
I do believe to this day that Archie hoped to curry favour with Flora by a
little display of horsemanship, for he had been talking a deal to her the
evening before of the delights of riding in London.

At all events, if he had meant to create a sensation he succeeded
admirably, though at the expense of a portion of his dignity.

No sooner was he mounted than off he rode. Stay, though, I should rather
say that no sooner did we mount him than off he was carried. That is a way
of putting it which is more in accordance with facts, for we--Donald,
Dugald, and I--mounted him, and the pony did the rest, he, Archie, being
legally speaking _nolens volens_. When my brothers and I emerged at last,
we could just distinguish Flora waiting on the horizon of a braeland, her
figure well thrown out against the sky, her pony curveting round and
round, which was Flora's pet pony's way of keeping still. Away at a
tangent from the proper line of march, Archie on his steed was being
rapidly whirled. As soon as we came within sight of our sister, we
observed her making signs in Archie's direction and concluded to follow.
Having duly signalled her wishes, Flora disappeared over the brow of the
hill. Her intention was, we afterwards found out, to take a cross-cut and
intercept, if possible, the mad career of Archie's Coila steed.

'Hurry up, Donald,' I shouted to my nearest brother; 'that pony is mad. It
is making straight for the cliffs of Craigiemore.'

On we went at furious speed. It was in reality, or appeared to be, a race
for life; but should we win? The terrible cliffs for which Archie's pony
was heading away were perpendicular bluffs that rose from a dark slimy
morass near the lake. Fifty feet high they were at the lowest, and pointed
unmistakably to some terrible convulsion of Nature in ages long gone by.
They