slowly. I
shall not deny that I often looked over my shoulder as I went, and that,
when I reached the loch, I did not angle without many a backward glance.
Such an appearance and disappearance as this, I remembered, were in the
experience of Sir Walter Scott. Lockhart does not tell the anecdote,
which is in a little anonymous volume, "Recollections of Sir Walter
Scott," published before Lockhart's book. Sir Walter reports that he was
once riding across the moor to Ashiesteil, in the clear brown summer
twilight, after sunset. He saw a man a little way ahead of him, but,
just before he reached the spot, the man disappeared. Scott rode about
and about, searching the low heather as I had done, but to no purpose. He
rode on, and, glancing back, saw the same man at the same place. He
turned his horse, galloped to the spot, and again--nothing! "Then," says
Sir Walter, "neither the mare nor I cared to wait any longer." Neither
had I cared to wait, and if there is any shame in the confession, on my
head be it!

There came a week of blazing summer weather; tramping over moors to lochs
like sheets of burnished steel was out of the question, and I worked at
my book, which now was all but finished. At length I wrote THE END, and
"o le bon ouff! que je poussais," as Flaubert says about one of his own
laborious conclusions. The weather broke, we had a deluge, and then came
a soft cloudy day, with a warm southern wind suggesting a final march on
Loch Nan. I packed some scones and marmalade into my creel, filled my
flask with whiskey, my cigarette-case with cigarettes, and started on the
familiar track with the happiest anticipations. The Lone Fisher was
quite out of my mind; the day was exhilarating--one of those true fishing-
days when you feel the presence of the sun without seeing him. Still, I
looked rather cautiously over the edge of the slope above the loch, and,
by Jove! there he was, fishing the near side, and wading deep among the
reeds! I did not stalk him this time, but set off running down the
hillside behind him, as quickly as my basket, with its load of waders and
boots, would permit. I was within forty yards of him, when he gave a
wild stagger, tried to recover himself, failed, and, this time,
disappeared in a perfectly legitimate and accountable manner. The
treacherous peaty bottom had given way, and his floating hat, with a
splash on the surface, and a few black bubbles, were all that testified
to his