allosh
had resumed--

"Lord Tulliwuddle, though I myself am only a stranger to your clan, your
Highland heart will feel reassured when I mention that I belong through
my grandmother to the kindred clan of the Mackays!" ("Hear, hear!" from
two or three ladies and gentlemen, evidently guests of the Gallosh.) "We
are but visitors at Hechnahoul, yet we assure you that no more devoted
hearts beat in all Caledonia! Lord Tulliwuddle, we welcome you!"

"Put your hand on your heart and bow," whispered Bunker. "Keep on bowing
and say nothing!"

Mechanically the bewildered Baron obeyed, and for a few moments
presented a spectacle not unlike royalty in procession.

But as some reply from him had evidently been expected at this point,
and the pipers had even ceased playing lest any word of their chief's
should be lost, a pause ensued which might have grown embarrassing had
not the Count promptly stepped forward.

"I think," he said, indicating two other snow-white figures who held
gigantic bouquets, "that a pleasant part of the ceremony still remains
before us."

With a grateful glance at this discerning guest, Mrs. Gallosh thereupon
led forward her two youngest daughters (aged fifteen and thirteen), who,
with an air so delightfully coy that it fell like a ray of sunshine
on the poor Baron's heart, presented him with their flowery symbols of
Hechnahoul's obeisance to its lord.

His consternation returned with the advance of the two ancient
clansmen who, after a guttural panegyric in Gaelic, offered him further
symbols--a claymore and target, very formidable to behold. All these
gifts having been adroitly transferred to the arms of the footmen by the
ubiquitous Count, the Baron's emotions swiftly passed through another
phase when the eldest Miss Gallosh, aged twenty, with burning eyes
and the most distracting tresses, dropped him a sweeping courtesy and
offered a final contribution--a fiery cross, carved and painted by her
own fair hands.

A fresh round of applause followed this, and then a sudden silence fell
upon the assembly. All eyes were turned upon the chieftain: not even a
dog barked: it was the moment of a lifetime.

"Can you manage a speech, old man?" whispered Bunker.

"Ach, no, no, no! Let me escape. Oh, let me fly!"

"Bury your face in your hands and lean on my shoulder," prompted the
Count.

This stage direction being obeyed, the most effective tableau
conceivable was presented, and the climax was reached