Bonker, I feel I am Tollyvoddle indeed." The print which had inspired this enthusiasm depicted a historical but treasonable Lord Tulliwuddle preparing to have his head removed.
Giving it a droll look, the Count observed-- "Well, if it inspires you, my dear Baron, that's all right.

The omen would have struck me differently." "Ze omen!" murmured the Baron with a start.
It required all Bunker's tact to revive his ally's damped enthusiasm, and even at breakfast next morning he referred in a gloomy voice to various premonitions recorded in the history of his family, and the horrible consequences of disregarding them.
But by the time they had started upon their journey north, his spirits rose a trifle; and when at length all lowland landscapes were left far behind them, and they had come into a province of peat streams and granite pinnacles, with the gloom of pines and the freshness of the birch blended like a May and December marriage, all appearance, at least, of disquietude had passed away.
Yet the Count kept an anxious eye upon him.

He was becoming decidedly restless.

At one moment he would rave about the glorious scenery; the next, plunge into a brown study of the Tulliwuddle rent-roll; and then in an instant start humming an air and smoking so fast that both their cases were empty while they were yet half an hour from Torrydhulish Station.

Now the Baron took to biting his nails, looking at his watch, and answering questions at random--a very different spectacle from the enthusiastic traveller of yesterday.
"Only ten minutes more," observed Bunker in his most cheering manner.
The Baron made no reply.
They were now running along the brink of a glimmering loch, the piled mountains on the farther shore perfectly mirrored; a tern or two lazily fishing; a delicate summer sky smiling above.