When at last he opened his eyes and stared about him silence had fallen over the field—a silence infinitely tragic and menacing, pent up with disaster and following retribution.
Very slowly facts began to stare him in the face. Even he, inexperienced in the manners of war and defeat as he was, realized with a shudder that if he could not crawl away certain death awaited him as it had met those silent figures all about him. The blow on his head throbbed horribly. He felt sick and weak. At last he made an effort to turn upon his side, and moaned aloud. Then suddenly he clenched his lips, and dropped upon his face, for near at hand he caught the tramp of footsteps, and heard the harsh voices of English soldiery.
Nearer they came, until they halted beside him.
"None for Master Gibbet 'ere," said one, and a chuckle followed.
"You never know," said another, and began dragging the bodies this way and that.
A muffled groan came from one of these unfortunates, and a moment later, to Rob's horror, a pistol barked, and the same grim silence fell again.
Then a hand gripped him by the arm, and turned him over. To feign death—that old, hazardous device—was Rob's solitary hope. He lay with closed eyes, holding his breath, in an agony of suspense. Second followed second, and no sound reached him. Stealthy footsteps he heard, and a muffled laugh, but nothing to warn him of immediate impending danger. So awful became the mysterious nature of the delay that he could hold out no longer. Breathe he must, or he would burst his lungs.
He drew in a long draught of air through his nostrils, and in a flash—before he knew what had happened, he had sneezed. A roar of brutal laughter greeted the penetrating noise, and a voice cried out beside him:
"Two to one on the snuff, Jerry; I've won the wager," and he was dragged to his feet.
Rob opened his eyes now that the worst was come. He would meet his end as bravely as he could. Four English soldiers were seated upon a pile of dead Highlanders, and another held him by the arm. He saw that there was little chance of mercy written on their brutal faces. Memories of Prestonpans and Falkirk were too sore for that.
"Well, my gamecock," said the man who held him, "so you are not so dead after all. What shall it be? A little bullet from a pistol, or a dig with one of your own claymores—more homelike that, eh?"
Rob kept silence. He could not understand a word they said in their queer, nasal twang. Vainly his eyes searched the desolate, wind-swept moor. The clash of battle was long since past. No hope of friendly succour lay there.
"Haste ye!" cried one of the four men who sat together. "There is other work. Pistol him and be done with it."
At that the fellow who held Rob stepped back a pace, and drawing his pistol, raised it and fired deliberately at him. Had Rob not ducked it would have killed him as he stood.
"A miss!" cried the others, and with an exclamation the man snatched a loaded pistol from one of his comrades, and prepared to finish the business.
Rob stood very still this time. He was too weak to run. The sooner it was all over the better.
The man was poising the pistol in his hand; he had shut one eye, and was glaring at Rob with the other. Already the trigger was moving, when a stern voice shouted "Halt!" and an English officer, very resplendently dressed, and with a white peruke, snatched the pistol from the man's hand. The other four staggered to their feet, and stood at attention.
The officer, whose back was turned on Rob, appeared to stare for a moment at the soldiers. Then, throwing the pistol upon the ground, he folded his arms and began to speak with a strong English accent, as baffling to Rob as that of his captors.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "Would you shoot a wounded boy?"
"Our orders were no quarter," growled the man who had so nearly killed Rob.
"Take your orders from me," thundered the officer in a blaze of anger, "or there will be more gibbets in Inverness than you had reckoned upon, and with fine, red-coated gentry upon them belike," at which Rob saw the fellows stir uneasily, and cast apprehensive glances at one another.
Apparently satisfied by the fear he had put upon them, the officer pointed to a horse wandering aimlessly about the moor, his reins about his knees.
"Fetch that horse," said he; "my beast was shot from under me an hour since."
Two of the men darted off, only too glad to win his favour, and all the time the officer stood with his back to Rob—a great, square figure, with a broad tear across the middle of his doublet and the long hair showing beneath his peruke. The soldiers caught the horse without difficulty, and returned with it. It was a dragoon charger, a great grey, raking beast, strong and sound.
Taking the reins in his hands, the officer turned again to the men.
"Mayhap you cannot guess whom you so nearly shot," said he darkly.
They shook their heads in an awed silence.
"Then ask in Inverness," he replied, and vaulted into the saddle.
"Now," he went on, "hand that boy up here. He's no prisoner for such as you."
In a moment, two of the soldiers caught up Rob and placed him in front of the saddle, so that he sat upon the horse's withers.
Then gathering up the reins they walked slowly away, leaving the soldiers at the salute.
A hundred yards passed and still they maintained this idle pace. Then suddenly the officer leaned forward.
"Haud tight," he whispered into Rob's ears in a voice strangely familiar, "for we're no through with it yet," and with a plunge the great horse sprang into a gallop.
"Muckle John!" cried Rob, nearly falling off altogether.
"Aye," said he, "just Muckle John and no sae happy at that."
Onward they rode at a headlong, tearing gallop, until the ill-fated field of Culloden with its heaps of huddled dead lay far behind them; and passing the water of Nairn, made for Aberarder and clattering through, thundered onward to Faraline.
A thin moon was drifting above the scattered clouds when Muckle John and Rob reached the head of a wild and desolate glen in Stratherrick, and here for the first time since their flight from Culloden they drew rein and alighted. So stiff and weary was Rob that his companion was compelled to lift him down, and lay him in the heather.
The horse, utterly done, stood with his head hanging forlornly, and the sweat dripping from his neck upon the heather. Few horses would have carried them both so gallantly.
Muckle John had long since discarded his English wig and coat. He stood in his shirt and with his hair fluttering in the night wind regarding with sombre eyes the blinking lights of a house down the valley, a square white house two stories high. Twice during the brief halt a man had crept out of the encircling darkness and scrutinized them narrowly. There was no sound beyond the wind sighing amongst the corries, but each time Muckle John had seen the heather quiver before something noiseless and stealthy that disappeared as softly as it had come. Once from far up the hill he heard a long whistle like a curlew on the wing.
At last he turned his head and let his eyes rest on Rob, and then again upon the grey horse with its drooping head. With a faint shrug of his shoulders he shook the boy.
"Rob," said he, "do you ken yon house?"
With a groan Rob struggled up.
"Gortuleg House," he replied, "I know it well."
Muckle John of a sudden turned his head and raised his hand for silence.
From far away along the track they had come was a sharp click-clack like the rattle of a loose stone on a horse's hoof.
"Ye hear, Rob," he whispered, "there'll be few abed to-night. Come away, boy, this is a daft-like place to be found in."
From up the hill came the mournful whistle once again. It was answered by another far down the glen.
"The place is hotching with Frasers," he muttered, lifting Rob upon the horse, "and where the Frasers are a man must feel his way, saving your presence, Rob."
"They are our friends," said Rob stoutly, "and my people."
"I'm no denying it—though maybe ye had safer speak for yersel', Rob, but to-day will end many a friendship, and I'm no trusting Lochiel himsel' until I'm clear of this business."
Nearer they drew to the lights of Gortuleg House, but the closer they came the more cautious grew Muckle John, feeling his way with immoderate care, and with a hand upon the horse's nostrils for fear of a whinny. To the rear of the house there stood a wall with a few stunted fruit-trees in an orchard. In the same anxious silence Muckle John hitched the bridle to a branch and lifted Rob down.
"Bide here," he whispered, "until I come, and if any one speaks to you say that you're waiting upon Lord Lovat."
"Lord Lovat?"
"Who else?"
"But is he here?"
"Man Rob, I've no time to teach you elements of common sense. If ye see a wheen corbies driving across the sky what do ye ken?"
"That there's carrion," said Rob to humour his temper.
"And if ye see muckle muir-fowl cowering among the heather?"
"A hawk."
"You're doing finely, Rob;" he paused and leaning nearer added in a whisper, "I am no sure but that the hawk is nearer than ye think..." and with that he was gone, leaving Rob beneath the shadow of the broken masonry.
Barely five minutes had passed before the thud of horses' flying feet came beating down the glen. The moon riding high in the sky glinted on steel and silver, and at the commotion the door of Gortuleg House opened and the figure of an old bent man was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning upon a stick. He was a grotesque enough spectacle—very ponderous and unwieldy, large-faced and ruddy and with shifty, speeding eyes almost buried in a mass of flesh. He was dressed in a loose coat, rough baggy breeches and stockings, with large flat buckled shoes, and as he peered and craned his head he tapped in a fever of impatience upon the flagged stone at the doorway.
A single ray of light made a yellow bar upon the open space in front.
Nearer and nearer came the racket of galloping horses—the jingling of bits and scabbards—the hoarse shout of a man's voice, and into the lit space plunged a powerful roan horse all dirty grey with foam and spent mud. Upon its back there sat a young man rocking with fatigue and with his head uncovered and his coat opened to the night wind. The old man standing in the doorway shuffled forward a step and laid a hand upon his bridle-reins.
"Who are ye?" he asked in a shrill querulous voice, "and what news do you bring?"
For a long time there was no reply, and in the silence the candle in the old man's hand fluttered desperately and went out.
"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse in a dull voice as though he were half dreaming, "I am the Prince and..." his voice trailed into silence.
"I AM THE PRINCE," SAID THE MAN UPON THE HORSE."I AM THE PRINCE," SAID THE MAN UPON THE HORSE.
Round him in a half-circle the companions of that wild flight were gathered—their faces looking very dim and white like the faces of ghosts. For an instant the old man seemed to shrink into himself. His great head drooped,—the hand that gripped the bridle fell with a low thud against his side. But only for an instant. There was within that disease-racked body an energy that defied the penalties of age.
"Dhia gleidh sinn," he cried harshly, "are you tongueless all of you? Come—come in—would you sit glooming there all night? Your Highness," he said, breaking off and looking up again, "this is a wae meeting and like to be our last...."
"You are Lord Lovat," said the Prince with more life in his voice.
"It is a name," the old man replied, with a sudden twisted grin, "that I would I could disown."
A few gillies had gathered about the horsemen, and when they had dismounted their tired beasts were led away to an outhouse, and the whole party followed Lord Lovat within.
Inside the room where they made their way a great fire was burning. A table stood in the centre, upon which was a bottle of claret and some glasses. He had waited news for hours back.
In the firelight Lord Lovat regarded his visitors with sour displeasure. Now that the news of Culloden had come, and the first biting terror over, he resumed his habitual demeanour of inscrutable cynicism. He congratulated the Prince on arriving so soon, and poured out his glass of wine—he asked the names of the various gentlemen with him and expressed polite ignorance when he was informed, only remarking that he had always admired Irishmen because they took so much interest in other people's affairs. And all the time he was cursing his utter folly for having supported the Jacobite cause and plotting, plotting, plotting in his inmost mind what was the safest course to take.
Only once did his self-possession desert him, and that was when the Prince said to Sir Thomas Sheridan that they must make for the Isles.
"Make for the Isles," he cried, glaring at them like an aged wolf-hound, "what sort of talk is that? Will you desert us all and not make a stand in the hills? What is one defeat? You must make terms, sir, or you'll have more to answer for than ever your father had."
"It is no good," replied the Prince dejectedly.
"Oh, why," cried Lovat, trembling with fury and vexation, "did ye come and ruin us at all?"
At that they tried to soothe him, telling him that he had taken no part—that he was an old man—that he could hide for a season. To all of which Lovat shook his great head. He never deceived himself.
"More than that," went on the Irishman, Sheridan, pacing up and down before the open window, "all is not lost. The clans will assemble again, and French gold is even now on its way. Gold," he added, "will unite us again as quick as honour."
He smiled, little guessing how far he erred in that while Lovat listened absently.
"French gold," he repeated, "and how can they land gold now?"
"They make for Lochnanuagh," replied Sheridan, "and...." but the Prince broke in:
"Come, gentlemen," he cried, "let us to horse. We must reach Invergarry before dawn. There is no sleep for us yet awhile..." and he raised his harassed eyes to the cold sky. "My lord," he said, a moment later, taking Lovat by the hand, "do not give way to despair—we are not beaten yet."
But the melancholy tone in which he sought to cheer the old man went like a chill to their hearts, and brought the old satirical grin to Lovat's mouth.
"Farewell," replied the old man with all the natural dignity that neither age nor dishonour could rob him, "I doubt we shall never meet again."
At that they all rose, and after shaking him by the hand passed down the stairs. He accompanied them to the door and stood with no further word while they mounted their beasts. The gillies letting the reins, fell back into the night leaving him alone. He took off his hat, but made no other sign.
Of a sudden in the cold night there rang a wild tumult of horses' hoofs and they were gone as they had come.
For long Lord Lovat stood in the doorway listening, with his eyes upon the black way they had taken, and then shivering violently he turned and stumbled upstairs.
Out in the darkness Muckle John crept from the shadows. He had heard all or nearly all. He looked all around him and then stared at the upper window of Gortuleg. He could see the vast shadow of Lovat seated by the table waiting his fate. For a few minutes he stood pondering the situation, then on tiptoe he crossed the track and opened the door. Closing it gently, he made his way up the narrow stairs. The door to the room where Lovat sat was open. He halted in the passage and looked in.
On a chair before the empty fire-grate sat the old man, his eyes fixed upon the floor, his legs crossed his fingers intertwined. His lips were moving ceaselessly, and once he frowned like a man frowns to himself who is uncertain just what course to take.
At last he rose and made his way across the room and to a strong box heavily clasped. This he unlocked and opened, extracting a heap of documents and letters and laying them upon the table. Then setting fire to the peats, he began to turn over the stuff, throwing some into the flames and putting some back again into the box.
"A braw night to you," said Muckle John, standing full in the doorway. The paper the old man held between his fingers fluttered gently upon the floor. Over his face there travelled a grey tinge as though he had grown of a sudden very old or ill. But he never moved nor did he say anything.
Entering the room, Muckle John closed the door, and walking towards the fire set about warming his hands in the coolest manner imaginable. Then taking off his great coat he laid it over the window.
"On such a night," he said, "it is better to do things quickly, my lord, and privately."
The old man answered nothing. He seemed struck dumb with fear, or rage, or some kindred emotion.
"I take it from your little preparations that you know how things stand."
"I was looking through some old rubbish," said Lovat more at his ease.
"I know what sort of rubbish," replied Muckle John, extracting a letter before the old man could check his hand, "how would this sound, eh? It's no what we might call cordial to Geordie."
"I am an old sick man," said Lovat, with a suspicion of whining, "scarce able to read or write. My memory is near gone and my faculties all amiss. What do you want with me? It is late and I have much to do."
"Perhaps your lordship will remember Castleleathers, who was once your good friend."
"What of him?"
"He did me a service abroad. Yesterday I was with him in Inverness. He told me much about you, my lord—and your promises."
Lovat shrugged his shoulders.
"It is easy to listen to one side of a matter," he replied tartly. "Castleleathers is a fool—I have never suffered fools gladly."
"Even you make mistakes sometimes, my lord."
The fear of capture took Lovat by the throat.
"Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can forgive and forget?"
"No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget."
"Then what is it you want—is it my life—there is little enough of that to take—or is it money—I have a few guineas?"
"It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France."
"Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he remained deep in thought for a while.
"Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly.
"Maybe and maybe no."
Lovat moistened his dry lips.
"There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was. There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white—you will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...."
"And they?"
"I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's good—"
"Impossible—you are pleased to insult me."
"Then what will you do should I tell you?"
"I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle."
A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks.
"You would—you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English hands, you would sell me?"
"There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly did the same to me."
"Long ago—long ago."
"In the year 1728 to be exact."
Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again.
"How did ye know there was treasure?" he said, to make time.
"You forgot to shut your window."
"You played eavesdropper?"
Muckle John sighed.
"The hour is late," he replied, meaningly.
"I am in your hands," said Lovat.
"Then tell me where the gold is to be landed. I could not catch the name of the place."
The old man leant forward suddenly.
"It is on the coast of Knoidart," he replied.
"You swear it?"
"Such were the words that Sheridan said."
"It sounded unlike Knoidart, but I could not hear."
"It was Knoidart."
For long Muckle John tried to read truth or lies in his face. But the expression of Lovat was guileless.
"If you have lied," said Muckle John at last, "I will hound you down."
Lovat gently drew the palms of his hands together.
"Why should I lie?" he said.
"Then good-bye, my lord, and look to your papers, for to-morrow will bring dragoons and..."
"Enough," broke in Lovat, "I am not afraid."
He sat perfectly still until Muckle John had gone down the stairs, then with a grim smile he set about sorting his papers.
"Knoidart," he chuckled, "it's little gold would remain in Knoidart."
Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse.
"I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return, never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune—ye mind the way it goes—" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills, laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen.
A great loneliness stole over Rob, left as he was in a country he hardly knew, and with a throbbing wound, and a keen hunger on him. Stealing round to the house he made his way to the hall, and hearing no sound of human souls anywhere he entered the kitchen and happened upon a plate of cold porridge. This he devoured, and re-entering the hall he lay down before the fire and fell asleep.
Upstairs Lovat crouched before the fire. Hour after hour passed and still he spelt out with his tired weak eyes the contents of one sheet upon another. Once he nodded and a letter passed unread—a letter that was to weigh in the scales against him later. For an hour he slept altogether. But as the dawn was creeping back over that stricken country, the day following Culloden found him still bending with a haggard countenance over his correspondence, every letter of which might bring him to the scaffold.
At dawn on the same morning that saw the Prince speeding westward and Muckle John upon the road, before the moon had sunk behind the hills, Rob Fraser stole out of the hall and made his way into the open air. Already rumours were drifting through the village that the English were on the march towards Gortuleg, and all who were suspected of having taken arms for the Prince would be summarily dealt with, and their houses given to the flames.
Round the premises of Gortuleg dwelt the same melancholy silence as on the night before. Every living thing seemed to have fled. The very kennels were empty. Only one shaggy Highland pony whinnied in the desolate stable, hungry and alone.
A grey mist was driving down the glen, and a thin drizzle of rain had set in with the coming day.
As Rob peered up at the windows wondering what had befallen, he caught for an instant a pair of eyes fixed upon him, and heard a noise of shuffling feet. Coming from that deserted place it sounded so dreary that he was near taking to his heels. Before he could move, however, the huge bulk of Lord Lovat loomed into the shadowy doorway. Leaning heavily upon his stick with hunched shoulders, and a face unshaved and the grey colour of chalk, he stood with muttering lips. Then shuffling forward a step he stared blankly at Rob like a man whose thoughts are far away on another errand.
"What o'clock is it?" he rasped at last; and pulling off his wig, patted it idly, and rammed it again upon his head.
"Six o'clock, your lordship," said Rob, in a great awe of him.
"Six o'clock!" He frowned suddenly, looking all around him with pursed lips. "Where are my servants?" he cried. And when no answer came he quoted a scrap of Latin, and chuckled as though the context tickled him.
"Well, well," said he at last, "and who are you, boy?"
"Rob Fraser, sir."
"Thank ye," he snarled, speaking in broad Scots; "but it's a name as common as muir-fowl hereabouts. Why are ye no with the Master, that unscrupulous rebel, my son? Mind how I spoke of him, Rob, should they ever dare to take me."
"I heard ye, my lord."
"Aye, and speak up for an old man, Rob, whose havers may be misinterpreted, ye ken. What is it ye will answer, Rob?"
"That you called your son, the Master, an unscrupulous rebel," he replied.
Lovat nodded his great head approvingly.
"Bonny it sounds. That'll make the House o' Peers sit up. We'll carry it with silver hairs and injured innocence, Rob—an auld man, my lords, near doited with years and sorrow."
He paused, and the look of fear twisted his features once again.
"It would look better to bide here," said he, in a mutter to himself, and so, with a pinch of snuff, he turned towards the door again. But a moment later he was back, and this time his limbs fairly shook with fear.
"No, no!" he gasped, one gout swollen hand upon his breast. "I canna wait here like an auld maimed dog. There are places I can bide until arrangements can be made. Quick, boy—saddle a horse and let us go."
"The horses are all gone, my lord," said Rob.
"All gone? So that is how they treat me. Then we must walk until we find one. Surely my people will help their chief."
"There is a pony, your lordship," cried Rob, and going to the stable he led out the powerful little beast.
Shuffling back to the house, Lovat crept up the creaking stairway and returned some minutes later with his strong box.
"Fasten it behind the saddle, Rob," he said, "or better still can I trust ye to carry it?"
He stood for a moment glooming at the ground and then begun to hunt amongst his pockets for a piece of paper which, when he had found it, he read most carefully and tittered in a strange falsetto manner to himself.
Then taking a silver whistle from his waistcoat he blew it three times and took to breathing upon his frozen fingers.
From the heather a hundred yards up the glen two men had risen at the first note, and came running towards them—long-haired, ragged gillies, Fraser by their tartan. They stood a little way from Lovat, watching him like dogs ready for the trail. The frost of their night watch stood upon their bonnets and their beards were stiff and glistening. Waving Rob aside Lovat began to speak to them in a low tone, but before he had said more than a dozen words his voice rose to a scream through the influence of some private passion, and he menaced them in Gaelic so that they quailed before his clenched fist. But as suddenly his voice dropped and he caressed them, patting their cheeks and then dismissing them, stood panting beside Rob—all the fire gone—once more just an old sick man.
Very slowly he clambered upon the pony, and so they started and began to pass the cluster of huts near Gortuleg. The frightened people trooped out of their doors to see their chief go by, and a dozen Frasers armed with muskets and swords gathered about him and trudged in silence towards the west.
At the corner of the brae Lovat turned and looked back on Gortuleg. Beneath his bullying, tyrannical, shifty character there was a kind of bedrock of that highly coloured sentiment that is akin to melodrama. He played to the gallery with infinite zest and genuine enjoyment. It was a nice pose to combat the diminishing power of the chieftainship—where force was a dangerous weapon, sentiment was often a two-edged sword.
"Farewell," he said, in his deep voice and with honest tears in his eyes, "for maybe I shall never see you again."
It did not matter that the house was not his, nor an imposing habitation at the best of times. All that mattered was that he was at the turn of the brae, going downward—an exiled chief. Fully conscious that the setting was saga-like the clansmen set up a piteous lamentation, and bowing his great head Lovat motioned them on, and the journey continued. And in this fashion after many weary hours they reached Loch Muilzie in Glenstrathfarar and for the time being considered themselves in safety.
Far away, dimly discernible in that wilderness of heather, two men were running like wolves on the trail—two men with dirks by their sides, and death in their hearts—running tirelessly. On the outskirts of the Fraser country they passed another man who was watching the pass and without a word he joined them—three men running in single file, bending double in open places—heading for Knoidart.
Long after, when the sun was falling, Muckle John pulled in his horse for the third time within an hour and listened intently. From the drenched hillside a curlew was crying amongst the shadows, and from up the hill came the clamour of a muir-fowl.
But no whisper of the danger that lurked unseen amongst the silences—awaiting the night.
And then with troubled eyes he continued his way, taking cover where he could, seeking a place of refuge.
Day followed day with no sign of the soldiers, and as time passed, Rob wished most fervently that Muckle John had not disappeared so abruptly, leaving him in an unknown country with a helpless old man.
One morning there was a movement in Lovat's hut and the old chief stood peering out of the doorway looking very savage and uncouth. He had forgotten to place his wig on his head and the scattered tags of grey hair were caught by every gust of wind.
"Rob," he said at last, shivering with the cold, "take a day in the hills and learn where the English are and whether a French frigate is off the coast."
Only too glad to fall in with such a suggestion Rob prepared to set off at once. Suddenly Lord Lovat called to him.
"Rob," he said, "where did you come from that night?"
"I came from Culloden."
"Culloden—and did you meet anyone on the road?"
"Only Muckle John."
The Fraser's cold eyes swooped down on him like a hawk dropping from the clouds.
"Muckle John," he repeated, "I seem to know the name—so you came with him did ye? And where were you, Rob, when the horsemen arrived? Was Muckle John with you then?"
"No, he had left me."
"Of course—of course—and then he came back and told you he was going away on important business, Rob."
"He said he would return."
At that Lovat left him, laughing as though something mightily funny had been said. But at the door he turned, still convulsed with his humour, and wagging a finger at him remarked:
"Mind my words, laddie, the race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong."
But Rob only looked at him in wonder, seeing nothing but an old sick man overtaken by dotage.
Then setting out upon the heather he made for the head of Loch Arkaig.
HE PEERED THROUGH THE HEATHER UPON THE BEACH.HE PEERED THROUGH THE HEATHER UPON THE BEACH.
Throughout the day he saw no glimpse of red-coats, and when evening was falling he stepped boldly down upon the shore of the loch, and thence onward to Lochnanuagh, where, to his excitement, the white sails of a frigate were bellied out with the breeze. Hastily concealing himself he peered through the heather upon the beach where a great number of people, principally Camerons and Macdonalds, were collected, and with them a squarely built, consequential little man very plainly dressed, who seemed greatly agitated about the numbers on the shore and anxious to disperse the crowd at all costs. But the more he cajoled and threatened the more closely they thronged the beach, and in the meanwhile the frigate had run down her anchor and lowered a boat. In it Rob could distinguish four men and some cargo, which had been slung down from the deck. On the shore there was a sudden silence almost startling after the clash of voices before. The creak of the rowlocks came nearer, and though far up the hill—so still was the day—Rob could catch the French manner of their speech, and once he heard the small man upon the beach cough and blow his nose.
But immediately the keel of the boat grated upon the shingle, the greatest animation was displayed. The sailors threw the cargo (which comprised some half-dozen little casks) upon the sand, and under the instructions of the little man they were carried into a secluded place and a rope slipped round them, whereupon he set about paying the sailors.
At that moment, however, there was a sullen boom like the noise of a gun far out at sea, and without a second's delay the boat shot away to the frigate, the anchor was raised, and running up her canvas she wheeled like a sea-bird and catching the breeze sped towards open water. From the noise of firing out at sea it was apparent that an action was in progress between an English man-of-war and the French ships.
The excitement upon the beach now boiled to fever heat. The hills nearest the bay were soon black with spectators, and in the midst of this new sensation the casks upon the beach were forgotten by all except the little man.
Indeed, had he not passed so close leading a Shetland pony very carefully and yet urging it to its fullest speed, Rob would never have remembered the landing of that mysterious cargo and consequently never have been mixed up in the tragedy of gold. But to Rob there was something enormously mystifying about the character of this solitary traveller, with his anxious manner, and the rattling casks ranged high upon the pony's flanks. It was like an old wife's tale of the fairies and their secret kegs of heather ale.
Partly because they were going the same road—partly because his curiosity was awake—he followed him through the heather, keeping a sharp eye meanwhile, for again and again the man upon the track would swing suddenly about and send his gaze ranging the hill-side for fear of being followed by the people on the shore. But always he did so with the utmost haste, urging the pony onwards after each halt, as though he feared the approach of night, or something that Rob knew nothing about.
And so they reached Loch Arkaig, and on the shore of the loch the man seemed to hesitate and take thought, and then hitching the pony to a tree he conveyed the casks to the sand beside the edge of the heather, and flinging off his coat, drew a spade from a hidden place and commenced to dig.
Twilight had come, and so shadowy had the shore grown that Rob crept nearer, wriggling through the tufts of heather and rock as noiselessly as an Indian.
Suddenly, however, he saw the head and shoulders of some one else silhouetted against the grey surface before him, a man who crouched and ducked his head as the digging ceased or recommenced upon the beach with the same care that he himself was practising. It was evident to Rob that there was more in all of this than he had imagined.
At last, apparently satisfied, the watcher began to retreat towards him, running on all fours up the hill-side. So rapidly did he come, indeed, that Rob had no time to roll out of the way, and with a swift bound the newcomer flung his full weight upon him, uttering no sound whatever, and together they rolled over and over in each other's arms.
One moment Rob was uppermost, then the other, who seemed all arms and legs and sharp clawing fingers. Twice Rob felt his throat gripped and two thumbs upon his windpipe, and each time he managed to jerk his head away. Then with a swift dive of his right arm he reached the knife in his stocking, and pulling it out he plunged it into his assailant's shoulder. It was a small blade, ill-fitted for dangerous work such as this; but a thin scream told him that he had penetrated the man's thick great-coat. Then perceiving his opponent jerk his head about with the pain, Rob clutched a heavy stone and driving it against his temple sent him senseless upon the ground.
It was a narrow escape, but fortune had apparently come to his aid in the nick of time. With a gasp of relief he sprang to his feet, when out of the darkness a voice said: "Stand, or I fire!" and the cold barrel of a pistol was rammed against his cheek.
He had forgotten the man upon the shore.
"I am unarmed," gasped Rob; "and it is the man upon the ground whom you should guard against, not me."
At that the pistol was lowered, and seating himself the newcomer laid it upon his knee and ordered him to relate his account of the fight, to which he listened with the closest interest. Then rising he bound the unconscious man's arms and legs with some rope which lay upon the beach, and thrust a rough gag into his mouth.
"And now, my lad," said he, "tell me what brings you here."
With some hesitation Rob related his experiences of the last two days, and when he had finished his companion clapped him upon the back.
"Bravely done," he said; "and let me tell you that Archibald Cameron is proud to meet ye." So saying he wrung him warmly by the hand and sprang to his feet.
He was that Dr. Archibald Cameron, brother to Lochiel, who was to suffer death at the hands of the Government in the year '53, a very gallant gentleman and the last to fall in the Stuart cause.
The moon was climbing into the sky as they stepped towards their prisoner; but Cameron first took Rob aside and whispered in his ear:
"What I buried," said he, speaking in the Lowland tongue, "would set the Highlands in a blaze. It is a merciful Providence you turned up as you did. For now we can hide it all the easier in another place, or maybe two places. But give me your oath on the naked dirk that no word of it will ever pass your lips except to the Prince."
"The Prince?" echoed Rob, who had followed him with difficulty.
"And who else? Did ye no jump to what the bonny casks meant? French gold, boy—enough to buy every claymore in the Highlands and Argyll as well. Now d'ye see? Come, Rob."
With that, Cameron approached the man upon the ground and motioned Rob to take his legs while he grasped him by the arms. So they made for a hollow place, and as they laid him down he groaned and opened his eyes, and at that moment the moon, clearing the tops of the trees, played its pale shafts upon the ghastly face of Ephraim Macaulay, late schoolmaster in Inverness.
Darkness overtook Muckle John to the south of Loch Garry in the Macdonald country. He had travelled without halt all day, keeping to the less frequented roads, and seeing on every side traces of the panic that followed Culloden. In every village was the same terror and the same frantic haste—some burying claymores with desperate hands so that they remained only half covered—others taking to the hills with their wives and little ones. Once a party of two hundred or more passed him on the road making for the south-west. They wore the look of men utterly dispirited, limping in broken ranks for all the blithe playing of a piper at their head.
Then plunging on through the heather he put mile after mile between him and Fort Augustus.
It was about three on the same afternoon that he pulled in his horse very sharply and swinging about gazed back. He was not sure that he had heard anything. It was more a premonition than anything else, but a northerner pays close heed to such things.
Everything was very lifeless and dreary on the road he had come. There was no sign of man or beast. With a grim look in his eyes Muckle John continued his journey.
But about an hour later he swerved behind a ledge of rock and cantered swiftly up the hill, keeping behind a huddle of crag for some hundred yards. Then turning as rapidly he watched the back trail. Several minutes passed and there was no sign of living thing. Presently, however, something moved ever so slightly just where the last rock towered out of the heather. A man's head rose and fell again.
With a faint smile Muckle John continued his way. His horse was very tired—twice it had nearly fallen through pure weariness. That it could carry him little further he realized at once. He did not know how many pursuers were on his track, but he put them down as Highland caterans ready to cut a throat for a purse. In that case they would wait till he slept, and rush upon him. It was, therefore, a matter of life or death for him to find a place of refuge before the sun fell.
The evening was closing in and he was so tired that he nodded as he rode. Nowhere in that rolling desolate country could he see a house or any trace of clachan or croft. And behind him waiting for darkness were men as crafty and cruel as Indians and just as patient. If not to-night then to-morrow, and he might wander over—miles of heather for days on end.
Meanwhile the brain of Muckle John was working. The future lay open to him like a man reading a map. He must throw them off the scent or perish. If not to-night—to-morrow. He would never come to grips with them—that he knew too well. It would be in his heavy sleep in the blackness of a Highland night. It must not be thought Muckle John was much concerned at the prospect. Those were days when life was not held dearly, and when a soldier of fortune might be hard put to it several times in a week. It was more the indignity of the business that irritated him. He was not accustomed to being stalked like a young stag. Most men gave Muckle John a wide berth.
Even as he brooded on the matter the grey horse tripped and fell. No power on earth could have kept it on its feet. It was utterly done. With a groan it collapsed upon its knees and rolled over on its side. Muckle John had slipped off as it staggered and now stood above it studying the next move. He was above all anxious to get a glimpse of his pursuers. Loosening his sword and taking a pistol from his great-coat pocket, he lay alongside the horse as though his leg were securely fastened beneath it in its fall. It was an old trick, but this was a country of few horses and worth a trial. He knew that they would close in on him if they saw him apparently crippled and at their mercy. Slowly the minutes passed and there was no sound, while a mist rose from the moist bed of the valley and hung in wreaths between the hills. Muckle John lay perfectly still, his pistol hidden beneath the tail of his coat, one leg stretched over the horse's flank, the other doubled up beneath him.
Near at hand a stone clinked at the burnside. It might have been a hill fox creeping away, but Muckle John knew that a fox does not do such things. He felt the eyes of some one upon him—but he could see nothing, and all the time the darkness was falling swiftly and his nerves were strained to the uttermost, waiting as he was upon his side for the rush of perhaps a dozen men.
Up the hill he heard an owl call and at that he smiled, for he knew—who better—that it was not the night for owls to cry Glengarry way, and that there is a world of difference between the call of a man and the call of an owl except to those who have never made it their business to note such things.
It was all falling out as he had expected, and he waited quite coolly for what was to come, foreseeing nothing of what really happened. Indeed it all came about so swiftly and so silently that few save Muckle John would have lived to learn another lesson in methods of attack.
Now there was an eminence immediately above him, such a natural frontage of rock as one sees on many a hill-side—places naturally avoided by the wild things unless they travel up wind or come upon them from above. Muckle John was looking upward when it happened. He was quite aware of the danger he ran, but he was waiting for a man's head to show itself against the sky-line just over the ledge. Suddenly, without warning but with only a muffled scraping like small pebbles scattered wildly, the sky was blotted out altogether, and at that Muckle John leaped like a hare and leaped just a thousandth fraction too late. The boulder, for that was of course what had been launched to crush him, killed the dying horse on the instant. But it also smashed the pistol of Muckle John and crumpled his sword like a thin strip of tin, imprisoning the tail of his great-coat in the ruin. It was neck or nothing now, and wrenching himself free he gave one glance at his arms and flinging them down set off through the trees that fringed the hill-side—running for his life. Knowing that his pursuers were probably tired men he set the pace in the hope of flinging them off, keeping the upper part of the hill, seldom stumbling for all his riding-boots and the darkness, and sometimes pausing for a breath of time to hear whether he had cast them off. But always at the same distance behind him he caught the dull padding of feet like wolves on the trail—tireless as deer. He made use of every feint he knew. He doubled on his tracks, he took refuge in places beneath crags. But always silently, patiently, utterly undaunted they came on. He could not see them but he heard them moving ever nearer, biding their time. There might be six or there might be twenty—he could not tell.
A desperate plan occurred to him to carry the war into the enemy's country—to pick off single men and throttle them noiselessly in the heather. But there was danger in that. He was unarmed now, and some one might give the alarm and they would overcome him in the struggle. Stumbling on he looked about him for a river or a loch in which he could swim to safety, or some cleft in a rock where he could hope to meet his assailants single-handed.
But there was nothing in all that dreary maze of darkness, and with anger and despair in his heart he settled down to a long tireless trot, waiting to outwit them if he could.
It was about two hours later that the moon filtered thin shafts of grey light through the scurrying clouds, and in a twinkling the landscape showed dimly and Muckle John found himself at a narrow pass running between two hills with a precipice of rock reaching up hundreds of feet on either side. Then the moon disappeared and he set off at a great pace up the rocky track, knowing that here, if at all, there lay a way to safety. On each side was the smooth surface of rock. There was no place to take refuge, but who could tell what use might be made of such a place? He must have covered half a mile at a quick pace—all the quicker because he knew that those upon his heels, running barefoot, would be handicapped by the loose stones and jagged edges of rock—when he came out upon the open moorland again and on the breath of the wind he caught the smell of cattle. And at once he saw a way.
Again the moon trailed out upon the misty sky and with eager eyes Muckle John searched the vapour. A clump of shaggy dripping coats huddled in a sheltered place to his right, that was all, but it satisfied Muckle John, for very quickly, knowing that there was not a moment to lose, he drew near to them and running amongst them, with a great shout brought them lumbering and snorting wildly to their feet. A vast Highland bull bellowed in the driving mist, but seeing nothing stamped his feet and shook his horns uncertainly. Then unsheathing a small knife, Muckle John drove the blade into a heifer beside him and sent it at a gallop towards the pass. Running hither and thither, but always avoiding the bull, he kept them moving, moving, until the head of the narrow way was reached, and at that he drew back and halted for the moon.
It came again in all serenity, streaming on to the desolate place with a thin forlorn kind of light, making the shadow of Muckle John look very large and the clump of cattle, some fifty of them and their perplexed and irritated leader, look like the cattle of a dream.
The time was ripe. With a strange noise in his throat like the roar of a stag Muckle John dropped upon his hands and made towards them on all fours—a weird enough spectacle on a lonely moor and very unnerving under a hazed moon. It was the last straw to the agitated beasts packed at the head of the pass. For a moment the bull stood his ground, but his heart failed him, being a bull barely three years old, and losing his head he set the panic ablaze. It was helter-skelter down the gorge and Muckle John at the back of them with his naked knife in their flanks. Again and again his wild cry rose and fell, faster and faster they thundered on until nothing could have stopped them—least of all three Frasers caught just midway like rats in a trap. What happened can never be known in its grim detail. But the herd passed on, and the beat of their feet died down and was swallowed up in the silent night.
And after them Muckle John, scanning the ground behind them, treading leisurely down the moonlit pass. Suddenly he paused and shivered at what he saw. Then walking on he paused again, and once more about fifty yards away he bent his head, and this time he took up a flutter of blood-stained tartan and peered at it very closely.
Presently he grinned like a dog.
"Fraser," he said, "what brings Frasers so far from Lovat at such a time—except to carry a message at the end of a dirk? What will Lovat say when he waits for news of the killing of Muckle John and he waits in vain?"
He stared at the strip of tartan for a long time, and then setting it on a ledge of rock he cut it into three equal parts.
"I doubt," he said grimly, "but there'll be a coronach playing when the last of you comes home."
Then making his way to the head of the pass he lay down underneath the shadow of a rock and settled himself to sleep.
A faint cry of dismay fell from Rob's lips as he met the evil glare in the schoolmaster's eyes. Cameron, too, seemed more than a little shaken at the encounter, though he said nothing, but appeared plunged in thought about the future.
In the hollow place where they stood, it was impossible for their prisoner to see anything save the open sky, and a thousand twinkling stars.
After a moment Cameron stepped gingerly beside him, and pulled at his bonds. Then, tearing a strip of cloth from off Macaulay's shirt, he bound it round his eyes as though to hide their gleaming malice from sight.
"Come, Rob," he said, in a whisper, "there's work for you and me this night. When we have ended we will set him free," and he led the way back to the shore.
It was very still and lonesome there with only the soft wash of the loch and the sighing of the wind amongst the trees, and Rob wished the matter well over, and himself back in the comparative security of Lovat's company.
"While I dig them up you roll them along the right bank," whispered Cameron, warning him to keep in the depths of the heather, "and lay them down in the shadow of the burn that joins the loch yonder. Should you hear a sound come back and warn me. Och!" he concluded, stepping into the moonlight, "but these are strange times." Then bending his back he sent the spade deep into the sand.
"It's fortunate for you that I caught him watching," whispered Rob, full of pride at his discovery.
"Man," said Cameron, "do I look sic a gomeral? I knew he was there from the moment I hitched the pony to the tree. Had he gone it would have fallen out just as I planned."
And so began the flight of the treasure—Rob creeping through the darkness of the trees, rolling a cask, stealing noiseless as a shadow over the wet leaves and bracken, and all the time seeing in the black night the terrible eyes of Ephraim Macaulay marking his every step. Backwards and forwards until his back ached, and the moisture stood heavy upon his brow. In the passive stillness of the night there was no breath of danger, no whisper of heather alive with fugitives, and spies, and nameless wanderers.
As he made for the slope with the last cask he saw Cameron smoothing over the place with cunning hands, and patting the marks of his footsteps about the sand. Then he too followed, and together they knelt by the stream.
"Now, Rob," said Cameron, "first there'll be a score of Highland caterans scanning this shore, and after that there'll be the red-coats, who are sure to get wind of it; and so it's our business, ye ken, to mak' siccar* of this. Maybe ye hae never hidden treasure, Rob, so let us have a crack about it. Come ye nearer. Now, when our friend in the hollow there gets his freedom he'll show a clear pair o' heels to those who sent him, an' I'm uncommon interested to ken just who they are."
* Certain.
"No, no," said Rob, with a touch of importance; "he is after me. He is a school-master of Inverness...."
"Oh! Maybe, maybe," broke in Cameron. "He is capable of being all that. But it's mair than you, Rob—though I hate to seem to undervalue your importance, laddie."
"Then he is not..."
"Whisht! What does it matter who he is? So ye understand, Rob. Follow him, and see whether he makes north or south, and then when ye know that I will send you on a journey, for I am travelling east mysel'."
"But Lord Lovat."
The man beside him started.
"What of him, Rob?" he asked quickly.
"Maybe he will require me."
Cameron laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Rob," said he very gravely, "Lord Lovat will require mair than you to save his auld neck, and for mercy's sake dinna breathe a word of this night's wark to him—nor to onybody but the one ye ken of."
"No," said Rob, "to nobody but the Prince."
"Come then, for time passes. When the search for this treasure commences—for mark you a score of eyes must have been watching me just as closely as your own—what will they do when they dig on the sand and find an empty huddle o' stanes? They will examine the neighbourhood for traces of spade work and footsteps. They know a single man like mysel' could not carry those casks mair than a hundred yards. They'd come straight here, Rob, like a pack of hounds on the trail."
"What can we do?" asked Rob, fearing his work was thrown away.
"There is just one thing to do, Rob, and that maybe will sound mighty ludicrous; but it is always the foolish tricks that are the hardest to unravel. When I asked you to show yoursel' upon the lochside, where it is mair light than I had looked for, it was because I had a thought, Rob, and it's just this: there are one or two gentry in this neighbourhood uncommon anxious to watch my doings this night, and, being a modest man, Rob, I'm no overpleased at the notion," and he brought his head a little nearer. "Supposing, Rob," he whispered, "you were to take my place upon the lochside for a wee half an hour, or maybe a little over?"
"Take your place?"
"Aye; put on my wig and coat (the hat I shall require), and when the moon is hid by a cloud, just scrunch upon the pebbles, and sit ye doon so that your kilt is hid. It would tak' the eyes o' an owl to see anything amiss in this dim light, Rob. Will ye do it, lad? Would ye? It is for the Prince, bless him."
"Give me your wig and coat," said Rob for answer.
With a sigh of relief and no further word, Cameron set the wig upon his head, and wrapped the long great-coat about him, turning up the collar. Then they remained in silence gazing at the cold grey sky.
"Quick," said he, at last, "there's a cloud coming," and he pushed Rob gently from the gloom of the trees. At the same time he sang a line of a song for any who might doubt him, and fell back out of sight.
When the moon swam out of the fleeting patch of cloud it fell upon the figure of a man who was sitting on a low piece of rock, with his elbows on his knees, and his back to the shore, and in the dead stillness of the night who could guess how many watched that black, crouching form, wondering why he never rose or walked about, but only sat with his chin in his hand, staring out across the loch.
Meanwhile Cameron passed noiselessly back to the place where the casks lay. Forewarned is forearmed, and he was not foolish enough to suppose that the hiding of treasure in the Cameron country would be an easy matter.
His clan had much love for him, but they also had an uncommon respect for gold, and times were hard. So a week before the frigate had flashed into Loch-na-nuagh he had dug a hole under a rock in the stream which ran into Loch Arkaig, and inside the hole had hidden a small barrel for holding half the contents of the casks (which contained bags of louis d'or). The other half, for safety, he had resolved to conceal elsewhere, while the casks, empty of gold, he had decided to bury in a hasty fashion just where Rob had placed them.
And in this manner the stiff work began, for only two hours of darkness remained.
Happily the wind had risen, and the sound of his preparations were unheard. That Cameron was nervous and anxious to be done one could have told by his frenzied haste. First he walked upstream for fifty yards with a bag upon his shoulders. Then he slid a large boulder across the waterfall to divert the current, and dropped his burden under the bed of the stream, where the open barrel was ready to receive them. Then he returned, never putting foot upon dry land, and so, with an aching back and bleeding fingers, he toiled on until at last the barrel was full and the lid on, and the stone rolled back so that the water rushed over the spot under which the treasure lay.
The digging of a hole for the casks down the stream then commenced, and that ready, Cameron set off towards the mouth of the burn in the opposite direction from where the first portion of the gold lay buried; and still wading in the current, he began to approach the shore. About a score of yards from the loch a great rock rose by the side of the burn, and some six feet above it a single branch of a tree swayed stiffly in the night breeze, extending in a straight line from the trunk, for near the shore the hill-side was woody and thick with undergrowth.
Now the hardest part of the work began. He first of all slipped a piece of rope through the loop of the remaining bags holding the end of it in his hand. For a moment he rested, then leaping upon the rock, he crouched an instant, and sprang straight for the thick branch above him. Grasping it tightly, he swung himself cross-legged upon it, and leaning over began to haul the bags up beside him, slinging the rope securely about the tree.
Having detached the first bag, he conveyed it along the branch, and, smoothing aside the leaves, there was revealed a hole in the trunk of the tree about the size of a saucer, into which he squeezed it. This he did many times, until the contents of the second half of the casks were inside the hollow trunk, and then rearranging the leaves, he took a bird's nest very gravely from inside his hat, and laying it over the hole, slipped a couple of eggs from a little bag round his neck inside it, and let himself down again upon the rock.
Then burying the casks as he had planned, and that but carelessly, so that the top of one of them even stuck a little through the turf, he threw a few gold pieces upon the ground. The work was finished. Stealing back, he gave a low call to Rob, who, waiting a moment, slipped back to his side.
Cameron without a word slipped on the great-coat and his wig again, and patting Rob upon the shoulder, led him down upon the beach, where the bright moonlight made the loch gleam like beaten silver. The spade he had concealed in a secret place.
"Let us have a crack together for a moment," said he in a low voice. "That we will be seen is probable, but I think none watched just now. Ye might wonder why I," he continued, speaking more loudly, and with his head turned a little towards the trees, "who have exercised such care, have trusted you, Rob, who are a stranger to me. Then I just canna tell you, for I do not know, and that's the sober truth. Anyway here is a plan o' the places and other things; and dinna let this out of your hands, Rob, and if ye are taken, swallow it, or destroy it in some way. In case we are watched take it from my hand as though we were saying good-bye. Now!" and extending his right hand, Cameron cried, "Good-bye, Rob," in a very clear voice. and made to pass the paper; but with a flustered movement he bungled it, dropping it upon the ground.
"Tuts!" said he, and stooping quickly made a great business of thrusting it into Rob's hands. "Follow that spy to-night," he said, "and then haste ye on the footsteps of the Prince, and tell him that I wait his instructions in Lochaber. Should ye need me send word that 'there's a muir-fowl snared.' Mind the words, laddie, for I'll ken by that ye are taken."
At that moment there was a small noise like a sigh behind them, and Cameron started and peered into the darkness.
"Speak lower," he said, "you understand?"
"I do," Rob replied.
"Then come. Let us set the fellow loose, and after that the less we see of Arkaig the better." So saying he led the way to the hollow place.
The moonlight shone smoothly down between the swaying tree-tops, but it fell upon empty greensward and bristling heather. No man lay there. Not even his ropes remained. It was as though he had been spirited away. Without a word, Cameron drew Rob swiftly back.
"Separate and run," he whispered in an agitated voice, "for we must be surrounded," and bending his body he darted amongst the trees towards the open hill-side. At that Rob overtaken by a sudden fear of the unknown, and a great dread of Ephraim Macaulay, took to his heels, and running in a direction at right angles to that in which Cameron had gone, he doubled on his tracks, and dropped down under a bank of heather.
Fortunate it was he had done so, for swift flying footsteps sounded close above his head, and two men sped past him into the wood. Then, crawling on hands and feet, he made for the head of the loch. But he had travelled a bare five hundred yards before the clear soft note like the sound of a chanter drifted towards him. And the bar that it played was the fantastic, ghostly tune of Muckle John, the same twisted melody that had so shaken the school-master in Miss Macpherson's house.
Nearer it came, and he lay flat upon the ground with a fallen tree before him. Suddenly on to the moonlit shore stepped a figure he could not mistake—the huge shoulders and chest, the massive head of Muckle John himself. And as he played he peered this way and that, as though he were in search of some one.
Rob was about to run forward, then as quickly he sank lower in the shadow. Something held him back.
Presently Muckle John laid aside the instrument, and whistled the haunting catch of tune in the moonlight.